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C3 


XX 


'SHAKE  HAN'S  WITH  ME,  WON'T  YOU?'" 


CARLOTTA'S   INTENDED 

AND    OTHER    TALES 


BY 

RUTH  McENERY  STUART 

AUTHOR  OP    f 
"A    GOLDEN    WEDDING,  AND    OTI1KK    TALES "    ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW  YORK 
HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1894,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 


All  rigktt  racned. 


•  Cwlotta's  Intended  "— Copyright,  1891,  bj  J.  a  Limxrorr  Co 


TO 

MY    DEAR    SISTER 

AND  BEST-LOVED  FRIEND 

SARAH  STIRLING  McENERY 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

CAELOTTA'S  INTENDED 1 

BUD  ZUNTS'S  MAIL .     .  103 

•                                                              s 
"  CHRISTMAS    GEESE '' -    143 

C.ESAR 181 

AUNT  DELPHI'S  DILEMMA   .......  227 

DUKE'S  CHRISTMAS 243 

POEMS — 

ROSE 269 

WINNIE 271 

VOICES  ........   275 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


"  '  SHAKE  HANDS  WITH  ME,  WON'T  YOU  ?'  "  .  .  .  Frontispiece 

"SEE  THE  MERCANTILE  HOUSE  OF  DI  CARLO "  .  Facing  page  4 
"  SHE  LOOKED  NOT  UNLIKE  THE  STATUES  OF  THE 

VIRGIN  MOTHER  AND  CHILD" "  "26 

"  AND  THE  THREE  FOLLOWED  THE  CHILDREN 

HOME  "     - "          "60 

"THE   IIKAVY   TIMBERS   ABOUT   HIM   WERE   NOT 

MORE  STILL  THAN  HE  " "       "98 

" '  SEEM   I.IKE   i   CAN'T  RICOLLEC'  TO   WIND   UP 

THAT  CLOCK1" "    "   128 

"  '  THEY  DON'T  NEITHER  ONE  KNOW  I'VE  AST  THE 

OTHER  ONE  TO  DINNER'" ''  "  146 

"  '  IT'S  ALWAYS  A  PLEASURE  TO  SET  AND  WATCH 

THAT  CHIMBLY  DRAW  '  " "  "  150 

"  '  YOU  WON'T  MIND  EF  I  HOLLKR  "  MERRY  CHRIST 
MAS  "  TO  YOU?'" "  "154 

'" i  DON'T  SAY  BUT  i  AM  LONESOME  SOMETIMES' "        "       "    158 

"  '  I  WANT  TO  KNOW  EF  MISS  LUCETTY  AN1  DR. 
JIM  WAS  TO  ASK  A  QUESTION  O1  THE 
GOOSE—"'  .  "  "  178 


CARLOTTA'S   INTENDED 


CARLOTTA'S   INTENDED 


A  SHORT,  swarthy,  gray  -  haired  old  man  who 
swung  his  little  legs  on  both  sides  of  the  barrel 
upon  which  he  sat,  who  smoked  a  stumpy  old 
pipe,  whose  one  heavy  eyebrow  ran  clear  across 
his  forehead,  who  wore  tiny  gold  ear-rings  and 
seldom  cut  his  hair,  who  spoke  in  monosyllables — 
such  was  Carlo  Di  Carlo,  "  the  dago." 

A  tall,  fat,  blooming  brown  creature,  loud- 
talking  and  voluble,  full  of  fun  and  temper,  luxu 
riant  to  coarseness,  whose  bust-measure  and  age 
were  both  somewhere  in  the  early  forties,  who 
seemed  fashioned  for  laughter  and  unlimited  ma 
ternity,  who  sat  every  evening  on  the  front  door 
step  of  the  shop  opposite  her  husband — this  was 
the  signora  Di  Carlo. 

A  dainty 'bit  of  a  girl,  radiant  as  petite,  dark  as 
her  father,  symmetrical  as  her  mother  of  twenty 
years  ago,  whose  lithe  figure  was  just  throwing 
out  hints  of  future  perfections,  whose  long  black 
hair  was  straight  as  an  Indian's,  but  fine  as  the 
down  upon  the  head  of  the  babe  who  lay  crowing 
upon  the  mother's  lap,  who  was  reticent  like  her 


father,  but  whose  mother's  fire  flashed  from  her 
eye  on  occasion,  a  girl  to  love,  to  hate,  to  do  and 
dare — behold  the  sweet  daughter,  Carlotta  Di 
Carlo!  The  discerning  eye  beheld  in  her  promise 
of  romance,  possibilities  of  tragedy,  and  he  who 
looked  upon  her  once  paused  to  look  again. 

A  row  of  little  black-eyed  dagoes  of  various 
ages  and  sexes,  of  various  degrees  of  beauty,  but 
all  handsome,  a  healthy,  picturesque,  noisy  lot, 
quarrelsome  without  pugnacity — these  were  the 
little  Di  Carlos. 

A  small  square  front  room,  with  a  low  shed 
around  its  two  sides  over  the  banquette,  an  oyster- 
counter  along  its  partition  -  wall,  a  fruit  -  stand 
spread  beneath  its  sheds  opening  on  two  streets, 
a  red  lantern  hung  out  at  the  corner  for  a  sign — 
see  the  mercantile  house  of  Di  Carlo. 

Within  a  front  corner  of  the  shop  in  winter, 
and  out  on  the  banquette  in  summer,  his  chair 
placed  so  as  to  command  a  view  of  the  fruit- 
shelves  on  both  sides,  sat  a  one-legged  cobbler, 
surrounded  by  his  professional  litter  of  old  shoes, 
strings,  and  scraps  of  leather. 

Fourteen  years  ago  Patrick  Rooney  took  this 
chair,  engaging  to  pay  for  the  rent  and  privileges 
of  the  same  by  doing  the  family  cobbling — a  fair 
enough  arrangement  with  a  circle  of  three  when 
Carlotta  was  wearing"  her  first  shoes,  but,  to  quote 
from  Pat,  "There's  been  niver  a  time  since  but 
the  madam's  been  aither  afther  raisin'  the  rint  on 
me  or  threaten  in'  to  do  that  same,  an'  sure  I'd 


've  deserrted  long  since  if  she'd  iver  sint  me  a  no 
tification  be  an  ugly  messenger  ;  but  whin  she 
sleeps  out,  'erself  bloominer  'n  iver,  wud  anither 
wan  o'  thim  black-eyed  beauties  forninst  her  buz- 
zom,  I  do  put  by  a  fresh  batch  o'  little  scraps  for 
patches  an'  trate  mesilf  to  a  dozen  on  the  half- 
shell,  on  the  strength  o'  the  new-customer  to  the 
thrade." 

The  Di  Carlos  doubtless  knew  a  good  bargain 
when  they  had  it,  and  so  Pat  had  been  encour 
aged  to  remain  by  perquisites  in  the  way  of  oys 
ters  and  fruit. 

This,  however,  was  a  scant  offset  to  an  increase 
from  one  to  nine  healthy  shoe-wearing  boys  and 
girls. 

If  Pat  had  begun  to  think  seriously  of  the  matter 
some  years  ago,  the  christening  of  a  new-comer — 
when  Pat  had  hobbled  all  the  way  up  the  aisle  at  St. 
Alphonse's  one  morning  and  recorded  a  sponsor's 
vows  for  a  diminutive  little  beauty  by  the  name 
of  Patrick  Rooney  Di  Carlo — held  him  firm  to  his 
chair  for  some  time,  and  then — well,  the  signora 
counted  on  th,is,  and  became  reckless,  and  there 
were  twins,  and  in  a  year  another.  There's  no 
telling  what  discontent  might  have  begun  to  fer 
ment  in  Pat's  breast  had  it  not  been  that  Carlotta 
began  to  grow  so  startlingly  beautiful,  and  young 
men  and  old  men  and  boys  began  hanging  about 
the  shop  when  there  was  nothing  to  buy,  or  buy 
ing  things  they  evidently  did  not  want,  and  all 
the  time  looking  at  Carlotta. 


Pat  had  petted  the  child,  called  her  his  "  svvate- 
heart,"  trotted  her  on  his  one  knee  and  sung  her 
to  sleep  to  "  Lanigan's  Ball,"  from  the  time  tie 
came  to  the  Di  Carlo  shop. 

Only  within  the  last  year,  however,  since  the 
halo  of  radiant  womanhood  had  been  hovering 
about  her,  had  a  tender  solicitude  for  the  girl  en 
tered  his  heart;  and,  although  the  signora,  fort 
unately,  did  not  suspect  it,  no  added  duty  would 
have  driven  him  from  his  post  now. 

And  yet  the  Di  Carlos  had  not  been  entirely 
unreasonable.  Later  concessions  had  been  made. 
A  room,  the  entire  garret  over  the  shop,  had  been 
placed  at  Pat's  disposal,  and  here  he  had  finally 
moved  his  few  belongings — a  cot,  a  chair  or  two, 
a  huge  green  box  which  held  his  surplus  clothing 
in  a  fraction  of  its  space  (such  a  wooden  bin  as 
the  poor  Irish  emigrant  usually  dignifies  by  the 
name  of  trunk,  and  which  one  need  not  be  Eng 
lish  to  call  a  box),  a  gaudy  picture  of  the  Virgin 
Mother  with  her  heart  aflame,  a  much-framed 
photograph  of  Carlotta  in  her  first-communion 
dress,  a  rosary  and  a  crucifix,  and — hanging  across 
the  rafters — the  moth-eaten  remains  of  a  bright 
uniform  and  a  broken  torch-lamp.  For  before  his 
accident  Pat  had  been  an  Irishman,  a  Fenian,  an 
American  ward-politician,  and  a  festive  leader  in 
torch-light  processions,  pat-riot-ism,  and  the  like. 

Nobody  ever  knew  just  how  or  by  whom  the 
shot  was  fired  that  made  him  a  cripple  and  a  cob 
bler  (and,  he  always  added,  "  a  Dutchman  and  a 


dago,  to  boot,"  laughing  alone  at  his  final  pun). 
But  it  was  a  fearful  row.  Three  men  were  shot, 
and  all  came  near  dying  but  didn't  die,  and,  as 
all  the  wounded  carried  weapons  more  or  less 
spent,  they  considered  discretion  the  better  part 
of  valor,  and  instigated  no  investigations. 

All  this  was  before  the  days  of  telephones  and 
hospital  ambulances,  and  Pat  was  carried  into 
the  shop  of  a  German  shoemaker,  next  door  to 
the  saloon  where  the  shooting  was  done.  He 
would  probably  have  been  sent  to  the  Charity 
Hospital  next  day,  however,  excepting  that  his 
host,  Hans  Schmidt,  had  happened  to  be  in  the 
saloon  .at  the  time  of  the  disturbance,  and,  his 
recollection  of  the  matter  being  somewhat  hazy, 
he  had  feared  possible  implications,  and  insisted  on 
nursing  the  wounded  man  through  his  trouble. 

The  neatness  of  this  arrangement  lay  in  the 
fact  that  as  soon  as  the  convalescent  was  able  to 
hold  up  his  head,  here  was  a  trade  for  him,  right 
under  his  eyes  and  hands.  The  ward-politician 
became  an  artisan,  and,  as  he  characteristically 
expressed  it,  "  his  first  tool  was  his  last." 

"  An'  ye  niver  seen  an  Irishman  a-mindin'  shoes 
afore  ?"  he  was  wont  to  say  on  occasion.  "Mebbe 
not ;  an'  yet  divil  a  wan  ud  turrn  'is  back  on  a 
cobbler  !  'Tis  thrue  enough,  in  the  ould  counthry, 
'tis  the  prastes  that  do  be  savin'  our  sowls  for  us, 
an'  I'm  worrkin'  at  the  same  thrade,  savin'  soles 
to  feed  me  body.  But  the  edge  of  the  joke  is, 
'twas  losin'  me  fut  that  set  me  to  shoemakin'." 


Thus  by  light  and  witty  speech  did  he  cover  what 
he  firmly  believed  to  be  a  broken  spirit. 

A  tedious  convalescence,  with  enforced  ab 
stemiousness,  had  given  him  ample  time  for  re 
flection,  and  by  the  time  he  had  been  nourished 
back  to  strength  on  apple-pie,  cinnamon  cake, 
nudels,  and  smierkcise,  and  found  himself  practi 
cally  apprenticed  to  a  shoemaker,  he  felt  that  he 
was  no  longer,  even  at  heart,  "one  of  the  boys." 

As  soon  as  his  period  of  invalidism  was  safely 
over,  however,  when  his  cautious  and  worthy  host 
was  assured  that  his  life  was  no  longer  in  jeopardy, 
things  were  rearranged  on  a  business  basis,  and 
the  terms  were  not  satisfactory  to  the  'prentice, 
who,  with  a  true  Celtic  alacrity,  had  mastered  the 
trade  to  a  degree  that  surprised  himself. 

Before  the  occupation  of  the  corner  shop  by 
the  Di  Carlos,  a  cobbler  had  carried  on  a  busi 
ness  here,  by  which  he  and  a  small  barefoot  fami 
ly  had  managed  to  live  ;  and  when  Pat  discovered 
the  change  of  tenants,  the  bright  idea  of  slipping 
into  this  trade  had  occurred  to  him  :  hence  the 
proposition,  conveyed  by  an  interpreter,  to  oc 
cupy  a  cobbler's  chair  in  the  new  fruit-shop. 

The  arrangement  had  much  to  recommend  it. 
On  wash-days,  when  the  father  and  the  boys  were 
out  peddling  over-ripe  stock,  Pat  often  represent 
ed  the  entire  business,  calling  "  Shop  !"  on  occa 
sion,  or  even  effecting  a  trade  when  there  were 
no  complications. 

"  Picayune  o'  lemons,  is  it  ?"  he  would  say,  for 


instance,  to  the  small-boy  customer.  "  Fetch  yer 
silver  heer,till  I  feel  the  heft  av  ut.  That's  solid — 
rings  like  the  bells  o'  heaven !  Drop  it  beyant  on  the 
counter — so.  Now,  pick  two  big  lemons  or  three 
little  wans.  That's  a  man ;  takes  three  middlin' 
sizes.  He's  got  a  business  fist  on  'im — '11  be  a  Van- 
derbilt  yet — nades  a  shoe-string  for  lagniappe" 
And  to  himself,  as  the  embryonic  Vanderbilt  de 
parted,  he  would  continue  after  this  fashion  : 

"  Faith,  an'  be  the  time  I  do  worrk  up  me  Dutch , 
thrade  wud  a  dago's  business,  an'  throw  in  a  Creole 
lagniappe,  I  do  have  to  run  me  hand  forninst  me 
flabby  pockut-book  to  know  mesilf  for  a  Paddy." 
And  his  soliloquy  held  as  much  truth  as  humor  ; 
for,  notwithstanding  the  fact  that  he  soon  com 
manded  a  neat  little  custom,  Pat's  heart  and  hand 
were  those  of  a  true  son  of  the  Emerald  Isle. 

From  the  day  she  first  put  up  her  pretty  red  lips 
for  the  shaggy  old  fellow  to  kiss,  his  whole  heart 
and  purse  had  belonged  to  the  baby  Carlotta. 
As  his  mind  had  begun  to  run  on  shoe-leather,  his 
first  spare  dollar  had  gone  for  a  pair  of  little  red 
shoes  for  her  when  she  was  barely  able  to  toddle. 

This  was  the  beginning  ;  and  then  there  were 
other  things — trinkets,  a  pair  of  gold  ear-rings  set 
with  turquoises  (and  he  had  locked  himself  in  the 
coal-house  and  stopped  his  ears  while  they  were 
put  into  her  little  ears),  and  then,  later,  a  thimble, 
then  a  prayer-book  and  mother-of-pearl  rosary  ; 
and  so  it  went. 

As  he  petted  the  little  thing  and  the  other 


10 


babies  as  they  came,  he  accused  himself  of  an  old 
man's  fondness  ;  though  when  this  story  begins 
he  was  in  fact  but  forty  years  old. 

"  Little  Lottie "  came  to  stand  in  his  life  in 
place  of  all  he  had  lost,  and  he  took  comfort  in 
her,  calling  himself  "an  ould  grandmother"  while 
he  buttoned  her  tiny  gowns  or  washed  her  pretty 
little  hands  and  face  for  her. 

"Say,  Carlo,"  said  the  signora,  one  day — this 
was  when  Carlotta  was  about  six  years  old — "  wad 
you  say  eef  we  geev-a  C'lotta  to  Meester  Pad  fo' 
wife  wan  day,  eh  ?" 

"  Indade,  me  respicted  mother-in-law,"  Pat  had 
replied,  laughing,  "  sure  ye're  too  late  shpakin' ! 
Lottie  an'  me's  engaged  six  months,  come  Moddy 
Graw." 

And  so  it  gradually  came  about  that  he  called 
the  pretty  dark-eyed  child  "  me  swateheart,"  "  me 
intinded,"  "  me  future,"  and  the  like,  while  she 
would  always  leave  her  father  or  mother  to  go  to 
"  Woona "  (her  best  baby  effort  at  his  name  in 
the  early  days  when  he  was  "Mr.  Rooney  "  in  the 
Di  Carlo  household). 

Within  the  last  year,  however,  while  as  unfail 
ingly  attentive  and  gentle,  he  called  her  only 
Lottie,  and  any  allusion  to  the  old  jests  was  wit 
tily  turned  aside. 

In  the  evenings,  after  dark,  Pat  generally 
formed  one  of  the  family  circle  on  the  banquette 
about  the  doors,  flavoring  the  conversation  with 
his  invariable  humor  and  mirth. 


11 


Usually  at  about  eight  o'clock  the  little  father 
would  jump  down  from  his  barrel,  and,  rubbing 
the  leg  that  had  "gone  to  sleep,"  hop  around 
limping  while  he  closed  in  the  fruit-shelves,  took 
down  the  lantern,  and  prepared  to  lock  up  the 
shop. 

At  his  first  movement  Pat  hobbled  in,  carrying 
his  chair  with  him,  the  signora  following,  and 
bending  over  her  sleeping  bundle  with  a  maternal 
"  Sh-h-h  !"  as  she  passed  in. 

Finally,  just  before  entering  himself,  the  father 
called,  "Toney !  Pasquale !  Joe!  Anita!  Neek!" 
and  a  crowd  came  rushing  noisily  in  from  the  con 
gregation  of  children  half-way  down  the  block, 
one  or  two  of  whom  generally  pursued  them  to 
the  door  for  a  "last  tag"  and  "good -night," 
while  a  voice  or  two  from  the  foremost  Di  Carlos 
answered  from,  within,  "  Sleep  tight." 

As  they  flocked  in,  passing  the  little  old  father 
standing  in  the  doorway,  he  looked  proudly  upon 
them  and  grunted  his  approval.  They  were  a 
royal  lot,  and  they  were  his. 

The  scene  reminds  one  of  a  familiar  barn-yard 
group — a  little  game  rooster,  a  fine  Brahma  hen, 
and  their  brood  of  handsome  chicks.  The  dimin 
utive  but  pompous  father  struts  around  with  a 
most  important  proprietary  air,  and,  flattering 
himself,  forgets  to  look  at  the  mother.  So  it  was 
with  little  Di  Carlo.  Men  and  roosters  are  so 
thoughtless. 

It  was  true,  Carlotta  was  a  beauty,  and  every 


12 


one  said  she  was  the  image  of  her  father ;  and  so 
she  was — his  image  inspired.  And  the  mother  was 
the  inspiration. 

If  the  little  husband  reminded  one  of  a  rooster, 
a  rooster  who  never  crowed,  it  was  not  so  much 
because  the  wife  persisted  in  doing  the  family 
crowing,  as  well  as  cackling,  as  that  it  pleased 
him  to  sit  by  and  smoke  while  she  toyed  with  his 
prerogative.  One  always  felt  that  the  crow  was 
in  him,  and  that  he  had  full  confidence  in  the  vol 
ume  of  it.  Such  is  the  value  of  reserve. 

In  deference  to  Pat,  the  language  of  the  even 
ing  circle  was  usually  English.  But  though  he 
had  never  attempted  the  Italian  speech  or  pro 
fessed  a  comprehension  of  it,  fourteen  years  of 
such  familiarity  with  it  as  the  shop  afforded  had 
opened  the  doors  of  his  understanding,  and  noth 
ing  less  than  a  subtlety  of  meaning  as  far  beyond 
the  Di  Carlos  as  himself  would  have  eluded  him 
now. 

A  sort  of  delicacy,  however,  forbade  his  reveal 
ing  this  to  those  who  sometimes  chose  to  speak  in 
his  presence  without  inviting  his  participation. 

Among  the  occasional  frequenters  of  the  shop 
had  been  for  some  time  an  old  man,  Pietro  Socola 
by  name,  for  whom  Pat  had  always  felt  an  in 
stinctive  dislike. 

During  the  past  few  months  Socola  had  be 
come  a  frequent  guest,  and  while  he  sat  on  a  box 
at  the  father's  side  in  the  evenings  and  spoke  in 
a  low  tone  in  Italian,  he  was  observed  to  cast 


13 


frequent  covert  glances  towards  the  daughter, 
Carlotta. 

Now,  Socola  was  rich,  according  to  the  Di  Carlo 
standard,  and  a  widower,  and  so  Pat  was  not  super- 
suspicious  in  interpreting  these  glances  as  ominous 
of  meaning  to  Carlotta. 

The  suspicion  quickened  his  hearing,  but  the 
most  assiduous  eavesdropping  had  as  yet  dis 
closed  nothing  to  confirm  his  fears.  Gossip  about 
the  men  on  the  luggers  or  at  the  Picayune  Tier, 
discussions  as  to  the  rise  or  fall  in  prices  of  fruit 
or  oysters,  interspersed  with  long  tobacco-flavored 
silences,  seemed  to  constitute  all  their  social  in 
tercourse  ;  and  yet — why  did  the  ugly  old  fellow 
keep  looking  at  Carlotta? 

Socola  was  of  the  one  essentially  homely  Italian 
type.  His  blue-gray  eyes  and  reddish  hair  were 
bereft  of  any  leaning  towards  beauty  by  a  heavy 
swarthy  skin,  while  the  entire  absence  of  upper 
front  teeth  gave  a  touch  of  grotesqueness  to  his 
ugly  visage.  Short-necked  and  square  of  build, 
he  had  nevertheless  a  stoop,  producing  an  effect 
as  if  his  face  arose  from  his  chest.  The  edges  of 
his  grizzly -red  mustache  were  further  colored 
from  the  tobacco  which  he  perpetually  chewed, 
and  his  hairy  little  hands  bore  about  their  blunt 
finger-tips  similar  suggestions  of  the  weed. 

Socola  was  plain,  as  well  as  distinctly  deficient 
in  the  subtle  charm  which  we  call  personal  mag 
netism. 

His  wife  had  been  dead  but  three  months  when 


14 


he  first  came  on  Sunday  afternoon  to  the  Di 
Carlos'.  For  three  successive  Sundays  he  re 
turned  thus,  and  then  he  began  dropping  in  in 
the  late  evenings,  until  now  almost  any  night  he 
could  be  seen  propped  up  on  his  box  at  Di  Carlo's 
side,  and  whether  Carlotta  sat  on  the  door-step 
working  on  her  "sampler"  or  promenaded  the 
banquette  with  one  of  the  twins  astride  her  hip, 
old  Pietro's  eyes  followed  her. 

This,  which  Pat  had  been  observing  for  some 
weeks,  culminated  one  day  in  a  tangible  occasion 
for  alarm. 

He  was  sitting  inside  the  shop,  putting  a  finish 
ing-stitch  to  a  patch,  when  he  saw  Socola  pass  the 
door  to  join  the  circle  about  the  steps  without. 

A  moment  later  Carlotta  hastily  entered  the 
shop,  her  face  black  as  a  storm-cloud. 

"  Come  heer,  Lottie,"  he  called,  quickly ;  and, 
as  she  approached  him,  "  Whut  ails  ye  ?" 

He  had  never  seen  her  so  angry.  It  was  a  mo 
ment  before  she  spoke. 

"Shpake  out,  Lottie,  me  girrl,  an'  tell  me  who 
done  ye  onythink." 

"I  don't  like  ol'  Pietro  Socola,"  she  said,  finally, 
her  eyes  flashing. 

"  Norr  me  nayther,"  he  answered,  shaking  his 
head.  "  But  tell  me  whut  'e  done  ye." 

"He  mashed  my  chin." 

"  Squazed  yer  chin,  did  'e  ?  An'  may  the  divil 
snatch  'is  mother  from  heaven  !" 

"  Yas,  an'  try  to  kiss  me.     I  hate  'im  !" 


15 


"  Thried  to  kiss  ye,  did  'e  ?  Bad  luck  to  'is 
lonesome  mouth  !  An'  who  seen  urn  ?" 

"My  paw  an'  my  maw  was  a-talkin'.  I  don' 
know  ef  my  maw  seen  'im  or  not.  She  laughed. 
I  hate  'im !" 

"  See  heer,  Lottie."  He  was  much  excited,  but 
spoke  low,  lest  he  should  be  overheard.  "  There's 
throuble  a-brewin'  for  ye,  me  beauty.  Don't  ye 
say  northin'  to  nobody,  but  ef  that  low-down, 
dirrty,  blue-eyed  nagur  av  a  dago  lays  the  heft 
av  'is  finger-tip  on  ye  again,  ye  go  for  um:  d'ye 
heer?" 

She  was  silent,  and  he  continued:  "Wull  ye 
do  whut  I  tell  ye,  Lottie  ?" 

"  Yas." 

"Well,  take  me  advice  an'  kape  out  av  arrm's 
length  av  'im  whin  ye  can ;  but  whin  ye  can't, 
an'  he  so  much  as  blows  'is  breath  on  a  hair  o'  yer 
head,  ye  come  down  on  'im  wud  a  regular  thun- 
derin'  polthogue — like  this !" 

He  placed  his  closed  fist  against  his  own  temple. 

"  See  heer,  colleen,"  he  resumed,  with  some.hes- 
itancy,  "  I  c'd  lather  'im  for  ye — a  couple  o'  hefts 
o'  me  peg  'd  land  'im  pantin'  in  the  gutther — but 
'twould  do  ye  no  good." 

"  'F  'e  turn  'is  sassy  ol'  eyes  on  me  again,  I'm 
goin'  slap  'is  face  good,"  she  said,  as  she  turned  to 
serve  a  customer. 

A  suppressed  sigh  escaped  the  cobbler,  and  his 
fingers  moved  nervously  as  he  finished  his  patch. 

His  worst   fears  were  materializing.      Socola, 


16 


the  rich,  the  honored  guest,  was  coming  for  Car- 
lotta. 

His  cobbling  finished  for  the  day,  he  rose  to  go 
to  his  room.  He  had  not  the  heart  to  join  the 
circle  about  the  doors  to-night.  He  hesitated  a 
moment,  and  glanced  without. 

The  signora  had  crossed  from  her  seat  on  the 
step,  and  drawn  a  stool  opposite  the  men — her  hus 
band  and  Socola. 

The  guest  was  speaking  very  earnestly  in  a  low 
voice  in  Italian,  and  his  audience  listened  with  ev 
ident  deference. 

Pat  heard  distinctly  Carlotta's  name.  Who  can 
blame  him  for  lingering,  just  a  moment,  to  be 
doubly  sure  he  was  not  mistaken  ? 

But  no,  he  heard  it  again,  and  then  something 
about  money — "a  thousand  dollars"  —  and  the 
mother  and  father  of  the  girl  smiled,  and,  while 
they  exchanged  glances,  nodded  assent. 

For  the  first  time  since  he  had  been  a  teetotaler 
Pat  staggered  as  he  walked  to  the  staircase,  and 
when  he  reached  his  attic  room  he  sank  into  his 
chair,  trembling  as  if  an  ague  possessed  him. 

He  was  bewildered  as  much  at  his  own  sensa 
tions  as  at  that  which  had  produced  them.  What 
did  it  mean  ?  It  was  bad  enough,  but  why  were  cold 
chills  running  all  over  him?  Why  did  he  think 
of  the  night  he  heard  of  his  mother's  death  ?  Why 
was  he  sobbing  before  he  could  control  himself  ? 

Oh,  Patrick  Rooney,  is  it  possible  that  you  are 
in  love  ? 


17 


It  was  even  so;  and  the  sudden  revelation  of  the 
truth  to  himself  seemed  to  seize  and  shake  him  to 
the  foundations  of  his  being. 

The  exquisite  agony  of  the  first  discovery  soon 
spent  itself  in  emotion,  but  all  night  long  he  sat 
as  one  dazed,  lost  in  wonder,  bewildered. 


II 

When  at  last  the  day  broke,  when  the  explain 
ing  sun's  rays  lifted  the  veil  that  the  moonlight 
imposes,  and  instead  of  shadows  Pat  began  to  see 
things  clearly,  he  cast  his  eyes  about  him,  as  if  to 
reassure  himself  and  get  his  bearings.  Every 
thing  in  his  meagre  apartment  seemed  to  hold 
some  association  with  the  child,  Carlotta.  Hang 
ing  upon  the  wall  were  the  little  worn  red  shoes, 
his  first  gift  to  her,  bearing  yet  the  impress  of  her 
baby  feet.  Within  the  lid  of  his  big  trunk,  open 
before  him,  swung  the  tiny  brass  hook  he  had 
placed  there  so  that  she  might  safely  fasten  her 
self  within,  and,  hiding  here  until  the  storm  was 
over,  she  had  escaped  many  a  whipping  from  her 
mother.  A  row  of  auger-holes  along  the  back, 
ruining  the  trunk,  had  further  fitted  it  for  her 
safe  retreat.  And  she  had  never  told.  She  had 
always  been  a  rare  child. 

Every  picture  summoned  by  the  associations 
was  charmingly  pretty,  and  when  finally  he  cast 
his  eyes  down  upon  himself — upon  his  toil-stained 


18 


garments,  his  rough  hands,  his  one  untidy  shoe — 
he  felt  as  if  he  were  blushing  at  a  sense  of  his  utter 
unfitness  for  her. 

Seizing  his  mirror,  a  triangular  fragment,  he 
closely  scrutinized  his  unshaven  face  and  unkempt 
hair,  and  as  he  laid  the  glass  down  he  turned  his 
vision  inward  and  backward  upon  the  years  of  his 
life  at  the  Di  Carlos'  and  before.  He  thought  of 
Carlotta  when  first  he  saw  her,  and  of  the  years 
since.  She  had  sweetened  and  cheered  his  life 
ever  since  he  had  known  her. 

She  and  this  sacred  love  that  had  come  to  him 
were  holy  things,  but  what  should  he  do  with 
them — he,  a  poor,  miserable,  penniless,  clumsy 
old  cripple  ?  It  was  a  terrible,  terrible  folly,  this 
love;  and  yet,  despite  the  hopelessness  of  it,  de 
spite  the  vivid  ludicrous  view  of  it  which  his  Irish 
perception  afforded,  he  felt  transported  by  it  into 
a  state  of  painful  ecstasy.  What  should  he -do 
with  himself — where  go  ? 

For  one  thing,  he  must  bathe  and  shave  and  cast 
off  these  ugly,  dusty  garments.  The  sacred  thing 
that  had  come  to  him  required  this  much  of  him. 

It  was  late  in  the  morning  before  his  toilet  was 
complete.  His  ordinary  hurried  ablutions  "for 
dacency's  sake"  were  performed  with  reference 
to  the  world.  To-day  his  own  consciousness  de 
manded  that  he  should  be  clean.  Even  his  old 
wooden  leg  received  its  first  baptism,  the  rite  be 
ing  applied  with  soft  soap  and  a  scrubbing-brush. 
The  hard  old  oak,  polished  from  long  use,  shone 


19 


like  the  Di  Carlo  biscuit-board — and  it  must  be 
understood  that  the  signora  was  of  the  clean  sort, 
unfortunately  in  the  minority  among  her  class. 

Pat  had  just  readjusted  his  peg  with  new  leath 
er  straps,  when  two  little  black  eyes  appeared 
above  the  stairway. 

"Mr.  Pat,  dey  got  a  colored  lady  down-stairs 
what  want  her  shoes  mend."  It  was  the  boy  Pas- 
quale,  and  he  was  all  the  way  up  now. 

"Tell  'er  I'm  not  worrkin'  to-day,  Pasquale,  me 
b'y.  I'm  very  sick." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Pat,  you  scared  me  awful !  I  thought 
you  was  a  man  up  here." 

"  An'  did  ye  r'a'ly  ?  Sure  an'  ye  made  a  terri 
ble  mishtake,  for  there's  northin'  up  heer  but 
three-quarrters  av  an  ould  divil  av  a  fool." 

"  Oh,  you  look  awful  white,  Mr.  Pat !  You 
sick  f  o'  true  ?  Mus'  I  call  my  maw  ?  Is  dey  got 
anybody  dead,  Mr.  Pat  ?" 

Pat's  only  previous  rigorous  toilets  had  been 
made  to  attend  an  occasional  funeral  of  some  for 
mer  comrade. 

"  Plaze  God,  there's  a  fraction  of  a  Joaf er  dead, 
sonny,  an*  I'm  dthressed  for  the  buryin'.  Call  no 
body,  but  go  now,  don't  be  delay  in',  and  tell  the  lady 
below  I'm  tuck  suddintly  ill  an'  I'm  not  worrkin'." 

It  was  with  manifest  reluctance  that  the  little 
fellow  at  last  withdrew  his  eyes  from  the  gentle 
man  in  the  attic  to  deliver  his  message. 

In  a  moment  the  signora's  voice  was  heard  at 
the  foot  of  the  stairs : 


20 


"  Oh,  Meester  Pad !  Pasquale  say  god-a  sorae- 
theen  the  matther  weeth-a  you.  'F  you  f  eel-a  sig, 
mus-a  shore  call-a  some6oc?y." 

"Much  obliged,  ma'am,  but  sure  I'm  takin'  a 
day  off,  jist,  an'  I'm  in  nade  o'  northin'  but  a 
broom,  if  ye'll  lind  me  the  loan  av  one." 

Pat  was  not  an  artist,  and  his  hands  were 
clumsy,  yet  the  result  of  a  single  effort  in  the  di 
rection  of  respectability  wrought  a  transformation 
in  his  apartment.  After  he  had  swept,  dusted, 
and  rearranged  his  shabby  belongings,  he  took 
from  his  box  a  little  old-fashioned  daguerreotype 
of  his  mother  and  gazed  upon  it  in  silence  for 
some  minutes.  When  finally  he  spoke,  his  voice 
was  tremulous  and  tender : 

"Indade  an'  yer  b'y's  in  great  throuble,  mam 
my  dear.  Ye  always  said  I  was  the  biggest  fool 
o'  the  dozen,  an'  sure  I  want  to  take  back  me 
sassy  conthradiction." 

He  drew  his  sleeve  clumsily  over  it,  wiping  a 
tear  from  the  face  of  the  picture,  and,  hobbling 
across  the  room,  placed  it  open  upon  the  shelf  that 
served  for  a  mantel. 

He  did  hot  go  down -stairs  that  day.  Though 
cleansed  and  clothed,  he  was  not  assured  of  being  iu 
his  right  mind.  He  dreaded  to  meet  Carlotta,  lest 
she  should  detect  the  insanity  that  possessed  him, 
and  despise  him  as  he  despised  himself  for  it.  Of 
course  this  nonsense  would  die  out  in  time,  and  he 
would  always  be  just  the  same  old  "  Woona"  to  her 
as  of  yore,  and  when  the  time  and  the  right  man 


21 


should  come  he  would  do  his  best  to  have  her  suit 
ably  married.  It  was  absurd  that  right  here  at  the 
outset  he  should  be  having  trouble  with  himself. 

For  three  days  he  felt  constrained  to  put  off 
"till  to-morrow"  his  going  down -stairs.  While 
he  could  not  treat  with  this  exquisite,  delicate 
thing  without  purifications  of  himself  and  sur 
roundings,  it  was  yet  only  a  something  to  be  sure 
ly  overcome.  A  few  days'  banishment  and  fast 
ing  would  restore  him  to  himself.  The  fasting, 
it  is  true,  he  practised  only  because  he  could  not 
eat,  and  the  banishment  on  a  similar  principle,  yet 
he  counted  on  this  discipline,  with  time  and  reso 
lution,  to  quell  a  passion  which  could  bring  him 
only  ignominy,  and  to  the  girl,  should  she  suspect 
it,  but  embarrassment  and  estrangement  from  her 
best  friend.  But  she  should  never  know  it. 

In  a  few  weeks,  at  furthest,  Socola  would  press 
his  suit;  for  was  there  not  every  reason  to  expect 
haste  ?  He  was  old  (old  men  are  always  in  a 
hurry),  a  widower  (who  ever  knew  a  widower  to 
dally  with  a  proposal  ?),  and  he  came  from  Sicily, 
from  Palermo,  that  warm  clime  of  impatient  love 
and  ardent  adorers. 

In  a  few  weeks  Carlotta  might  have  need  of  a 
friend.  Socola  was  rich.  The  Di  Carlos'  one 
weakness,  in  Pat's  eyes,  was  love  of  money.  The 
signora  had  laughed  when  the  old  man  tried  to 
kiss  Carlotta.  It  was  a  bad  omen.  She  would 
favor  his  suit. 

It  was  on  the  morning  of  the  fourth  day  that  lit- 


22 


tie  Pasquale  reappeared  at  the  head  of  the  stairs, 
bearing  this  time  in  his  hands  a  half-worn  shoe. 

"Back  wud  ye,  now!"  exclaimed  Pat,  anticipat 
ing  the  application.  "Sure  an'  I'm  on  the  re 
tired  lisht  for  a  couple  o'  days.  Fetch  me  no 
more  ordhers." 

"Who's  a-talkin'  'bout  orders?"  drawled  the 
pert  boy.  "Give  a  fellow  time  to  talk,  won't 
you  ?  My  maw  sez,  she  sez  C'lotta's  feet's  on  de 
groun',  and  somebody  haf  to  sew  'er  shoe." 

The  old  shoe,  torn  and  muddy,  which  the  boy 
laid  in  Pat's  hand,  bearing  the  unmistakable  im 
press  of  the  physical  vigor  and  undiscriminat- 
ing  step  of  a  growing  girl,  was  neither  small  nor 
shapely,  but  Pat's  hand  trembled  visibly  as  he 
touched  it,  and  he  felt  so  queer  that  he  was  fright 
ened.  He  seemed  to  see  Carlotta  standing  in  the 
flesh  before  him. 

"An'  my  maw  sez,  she  sez  if  yoti'll  sew  it  righd 
away,  'cause  C'lotta  ain't  got  no  more  shoes,  an' — " 

"  All  right.  Tell  'er  she'll  have  a  new  shoe 
built  around  the  patch  I'll  putt  on  it,  an' — off  wud 
ye,  now." 

As  the  boy  disappeared,  Pat  turned  the  shoe 
about  in  his  hands  slowly,  and,  perceiving  the 
trembling  of  his  fingers,  exclaimed  : 

"  The  divil's  grandmother!  Sure  an'  I  wouldn't 
know  mesilf  from  a  shakin'  Quaker  or  a  quakin' 
Shaker,  I'm  that  rattled !  But  I'll  kiss  the  f ut 
av  'er,  onyhow!"  And  he  laid  the  old  shoe  against 
his  lips  with  a  caressing  movement. 


23 


It  needed  many  stitches,  and  Pat  was  still  at 
work  upon  it  an  hour  later  when  he  heard  the  sig- 
nora  trudging  up  the  stairs. 

"Hello,  Meester  Pad;  'rn-a  come  talk  weeth-a 
you,"  she  began,  while  still  invisible.  "  God-a  so 
much-a  troub',  haf  to  spik  weeth-a  you."  And  as 
she  finally  reached  the  landing  she  exclaimed, 
looking  about  her,  "  Name  o'  God!  Well,  I  swea'! 
Pasquale  ees-a  tell  me  you  was-a  pud  on-a  plenny 
style  up  here."  Crossing,  she  dropped  into  a  seat 
at  Pat's  side,  putting  the  baby  which  she  carried 
upon  the  floor  before  her. 

"Fo'  God  sague !  Never  was-a  seel  you  so 
fine-a  biffo'.  B'lief  you  goin'  a  ged-a  marry,  Mees 
ter  Pad!" 

"Arrah,  thin,  I  may's  well  confess;  Carlotta  an' 
me's  plannin'  to  shtep  over  to  S'int  Alphonse's 
some  fine  morrnin',  an'  run  across  to  Algiers  for 
a  weddin'-tower  an'  back  again  be  the  Magazine 
Marrket  f'r  a  bridal  breakfasht.  Sure  an'  we're 
only  tarryin'  for  me  mother-in-law's  perrmission." 

This  bravado  helped  him  immensely.  He  had 
said  the  same  thing  substantially  a  hundred  times 
before,  but  not  for  a  long  time.  Instead  of  laugh 
ing  as  of  yore,  however,  the  signora  grew  serious. 

"Dthaz-a  just-a  fo'  wad  I'm-a  goin '-a  talk 
weeth-a  you,  Meester  Pad.  Of-a  coze  I  know  you 
god-a  nobody  an-a  northeen,  you  haf  to  mague  a 
lill-a  fun  some  time,  but  know  sometheen  ?  Young 
gal  ligue-a  C'lotta  ees-a  god-a  no  senz.  C'lotta 
b'lief  thad.  She  thing  you  ees-a  lov'  weeth-a  her." 


24 


"  An'  who  sez  she  does  ?" 

"  I  am-a  sho',  sho'  she  b'lief  thad." 

"An'  who  sez  she  does?"  he  repeated,  with 
keen  vehemence. 

"Nobody,  only  'erselve  ees-a  say  it." 

"An'  who  did  she  say  nt  to?  She  niver  said 
it,  ma'am  !" 

"My  God,  you  thing  me  I'm  a  liar?  C'lotta 
sez  to  me,  sez  I  don'-a  lov-a  no  man  bud-a  just-a 
Woona.  Wad  yon  call-a  thad  ?" 

"Begorra,  an'  I  suppose  she  loves  her  father 
betther  yet.  Who  the  divil  shud  she  like  betther 
nor  me — she  that's  afther  cutt'n'  'er  eye-teeth  on 
me  thumb-nail  ?" 

"  Of-a  coze  ;  dthaz-a  thrue  ;  bud-a  you  don' 
un'erstan',  Meester  Pad.  God-a  so  much-a  troub' 
weeth-a  thad  chil'.  Now  ees-a  raise  'er  so  big,  an' 
she  sassy  me  to  my  face.  God  knows,  I  weesh  me 
I  was-a  dead  !  God-a  so  much-a  troub'.  Fo'  two 
days,  can' d  do  northeen  weeth-a  C'lotta.  God-a  fine 
chanz,  C'lotta,  an'  she  don'  care  northeen  'boud." 

"A  fine  chance,  has  she?  An'  whut  is  it?" 
His  heart  stood  still. 

"  Pietro  Socola  ees-a  wan  reech-a  man,  Meester 
Pad.  Wan'-a  marry  weeth-a  C'lotta  /" 

"  The  divil's  pitchfork  !  An'  whut  does — whut 
does  she  say  ?" 

"  Say  she  won'-a  marry  weeth-a  heem.  Can'd 
do  northeen  weeth-a  C'lotta.  Her  pa  ees-a  w'ip 
'er,  me,  I  ees-a  w'ip  'er,  an'  the  mo'  we  ees-a  beat 
'er  the  mo'  she  ees-a  sassy  me  to  my  face." 


25 


Pat  was  speechless  with  surging  emotion,  and 
the  mother  continued  : 

"  Pietro  Socola  ees-a  prormis  me  an'  Carlo  a 
t'ousan'  dollah,  an'-a  tague  'eem  een-a  pardners, 
'f  'e  can-a  ged  C'lotta.  Oh,  'ees-a  crazy  fo'  C'lot- 
ta — lov'  er  so  hard." 

"  An'  did  'e  shpake  love  to  'er  ?" 

"  One  time  'ees-a  try  speak  weeth-a  C'lotta,  an' 
C'lotta  ees-a  slap  'is  face." 

"  An'  whut  did  he  say  ?" 

"He  ees-a  just  laugh.  Lov-a  C'lotta  so  hard 
'e  don'  care.  Want  'er  all-a  same.  Theng  God 
fo'  thad.  Tell  you,  Meester  Pad,  plenny  troub' 
een  theze-a  worl'.  Come-a  talk  weeth  you  'boud 
C'lotta.  'M  goin-a  call  'er  talk  weeth-a  you.  You 
muz-a  please  talk-a  senz  weeth  'er.  Tell  'er  she 
haf  to  marry  Socola.  C'lotta  do  anytheen-a  fo' 
you." 

Pat  was  diplomat  enough  to  see  the  worse  than 
futility  of  opposition.  He  let  her  call  Carlotta. 

Paler  than  he  had  ever  seen  her,  her  pallor  ex 
aggerating  a  dark  bruise  upon  her  cheek,  but  with 
her  head  erect,  she  appeared  before  them. 

"  Whut  ails  yer  face,  Lottie  ?"  said  the  man, 
gently,  as,  drawing  a  stool  to  his  side,  he  mo 
tioned  to  her  to  be  seated. 

She  remained  standing,  however,  and  the  moth 
er  answered : 

"  When  somebody  slap-a  company  in-a  face, 
muz-a  show  'er  how  it  feel  to  have-a  face  slap." 

"  An'  who  done  ut  ?" 


26 


"Me  raysclve  done  it.  Slap  'er  face  good  fo' 
her  !  Muz-a  teach-a  ray  chil'  some  manners.  Lill- 
a  mo'  would-a  pud  C'lotta's  eye  oud.  Hit  'er  good 
weeth  a  tin  cup.  Take  plenny  pains,  yas,  teach-a 
C'lotta  manners  an-a  raise  'er  nice." 

The  tension  of  the  situation  here  was  happily 
relieved  by  the  signer  Di  Carlo,  who  called  loud 
ly  in  Italian  for  his  wife  to  come  and  light  up  the 
shop.  She  would  have  hesitated,  but  an  impera 
tive  "  Won  posso  sestare!  Spicciatevi  T  warned 
her  that  her  lord  was  impatient. 

She  rose  hastily,  slipping  her  feet  deftly  from 
under  the  child  who  had  crept  up  against  her  and 
fallen  asleep,  and,  bidding  Carlotta  "min'-a  the 
baby,"  hurriedly  descended  the  stairs. 

The  child,  disturbed,  began  to  fret.  Seating 
herself,  Carlotta  raised  the  little  one  upon  her 
lap,  where  in  a  moment  it  slept  again. 

She  sat  opposite  Pat,  in  the  seat  her  mother 
had  vacated.  Sitting  thus,  with  the  beautiful 
babe  in  her  arms,  in  the  tender  twilight  which 
was  further  sensitized  by  the  subtle  insinuation 
of  light  from  a  new  moon  which  hung  just  with 
out,  she  looked  not  unlike  the  statues  in  the 
churches  of  the  Virgin  Mother  and  Child. 

Even  Pat  saw  it,  and  felt  like  crossing  himself 
as  he  looked  upon  her. 

He  had  never  seen  her  look  like  this  before. 
The  habitual  spirit  of  joyous  childishness  had 
passed  out  of  her  face,  which  seemed  clothed 
with  modesty  and  sadness. 


27 


She  had  not  spoken  since  she  entered  the  gar 
ret.  She  had  not  even  looked  at  Pat. 

Though  silent  also  for  a  time,  he  was  first  to 
speak : 

"  Well,  mavourneen,  me  poor  child  o'  sorrow, 
the  throuble's  come  quicker  nor  I  thought  for. 
Betune  the  two  av  us,  ye've  got  a  black  eye,  for 
yer  mother  only  paid  ye  for  takin'  me  advice. 
Forgive  me  me  share  o'  the  blame  while  I  talk 
to  ye  plain,  Lottie." 

Raising  his  eyes,  he  muttered  to  himself,  "The 
Lord  o'  light  give  me  courage  this  night !"  Then 
he  turned  to  her  : 

"An'  y.e  must  answer  me  plain,  Lottie.  Ye 
must  shpake  to-night  plainer  nor  ye  iver  shpoke 
since  yer  firrst  confession.  Answer  me  questions 
like  the  Holy  Virgin,  whose  image  ye  are,  an 
swered  the  angel  o'  the  Lord,  kapin'  northin'  hid. 
Wull  ye  do  ut,  Lottie  ?" 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him. 

"  Wull  ye  answer  me  questions  an'  kape  north- 
in'  back,  mavourneen  ?" 

She  gave  assent  by  an  inclination  of  her  head, 
keeping  her  eyes  upon  his  face. 

"  'R  ye  goin'  to  marry  Peter  Socola,  Lottie  ?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  No?  An'  why  not?  D'ye  know  he  has  riches 
an'  jew'ls  an  '11  make  a  fine  lady  av  ye  ?  I'm 
kapin'  northin'  back  from  ye,  an'  ye  must  answer 
me  thrue.  D'ye  know  all  that,  Lottie  ?" 

"Yas." 


28 


"  An'  ye  don't  want  'im,  nohow  ?" 

"No." 

"Not  if  'e  was  tarred  wud  melted  gold  an' 
feathered  wud  diamonds  till  Vd  shine  like  a  gov 
ernment  light-house  !  Ye  don't  want  'im  noway, 
sick  norr  well,  alive  norr  dead,  raw  norr  cooked, 
mummied  norr  shtuffed,  divilled  norr  on  the  half- 
shell  !  If  I'm  not  mishtaken,  I  know  yer  sinti- 
mints  on  the  Chinese  question,  an'  that's  about 
the  size  av  ut !  Ye  don't  want  Peter,  not  if  he 
does  come  wud  the  golden  keys  o'  the  kingdom  o' 
this  airth !  Ain't  that  so  ?" 

"Yas." 

"Yis  whut?" 

"  I  don't  want." 

"  That's  it ;  ye  don't  want  an'  sha'ri't  have  the 
antiquated  ould  pill  coated  for  a  sugar-plum!  Ye 
sha'n't  have  um,  an'  nayther  shall  he  have  you. 
That  much  is  settled,  an'  the  hows  an'  the  whins 
an'  the  wheres  come  aftherr.  An'  now  for  the 
next  question:  Is  there  onybody  else  ye  like?  — 
that  ye'd  like  to  marry,  I  mane  ?" 

She  looked  straight  into  his  eyes  and  answered 
not  a  word. 

How  his  heart  thumped  ! 

"  Shpake,  Lottie.  Out  wud  ut !  Is  there  ony 
body  else  ye  like  betther  nor  all  the  worrld  ?" 

But  still  she,  looking  into  his  eyes,  answered 
not. 

He  flinched  visibly  as  he  put  the  next  question : 

"  Is  it  Joe  Limongi,  Lottie  ?" 


29 


His  heart  was  dancing  a  highland  fling  now. 

With  an  almost  imperceptible,  but  steady  move 
ment,  she  shook  her  head. 

It  was  not  Limongi  —  Limongi  who  sold  canta 
loupes  for  her  father  and  liked  to  talk  to  Carlotta. 
Maybe  it  was — 

"  Is  it  Antonino  ?  Shpake  out  an'  answer  me 
thrue.  Is  it  Toney  ?" 

Another  head-shake. 

"Norr  yer  cousin  Nicolo  ?  Sure  I  niver  seen 
'im  shpakin'  wud  ye." 

The  Madonna  head  shook  again. 

"  Arrah,  musha,  an'  sure  an'  it  can't  be  Pat 
Murphy,  the  bit  av  a  grocery-b'y  at  Keenan's  be- 
yant  —  a  freckled,  red-headed,  blue-eyed  Paddy, 
wud  a  brogue  on  'im  as  thick  as  a  mush  poultice. 
Sure  ye  wudn't  care  for  the  likes  av  a  blazin'  divil 
av  an  Irishman,  wud  ye  ?" 

He  waited,  but  she  answered  nothing  nor  moved 
her  head. 

He  was  frightened.  His  voice  was  lower  when 
he  spoke  again  : 

"  In  the  name  o'  God,  Lottie,  answer  me,  me 
child.  Ye're  not  demanin'  yerself  wud  love  for 
Pat  Murphy,  are  ye  ?" 

No,  it  was  not  Pat  Murphy.  The  head  shook 
now  with  solemn  decision. 

"  Thin  who,  in  the  name  o'  the  Poydras  Marr- 
ket  ?  I  don't  know  no  more  a-comin'  round  heer. 
Sure  it  can't  be  the  cross-eyed  baker's  man  wud  a 
crooked — " 


30 


It  was  not  the  baker's  boy,  nor  yet  the  young 
American  who  lived  at  the  corner. 

Pat  could  think  of  no  other. 

"An'  fo'  the  love  o'  Heaven,  is  it  onybody, 
Lottie  ?" 

She  did  not  answer.    It  was  surely  some  one. 

"An*  does  he  love  ye,  me  child?  An'  are  ye 
engaged  to  um  ?" 

"I  don't  know."     This  slowly,  after  a  pause. 

"  Don't  know  if  ye're  engaged  ?  Is  it  af ther 
makin'  a  fool  av  me  ye  are,  Lottie  ?" 

He  was  wounded.  The  girl  saw  it,  and  was 
suddenly  roused. 

"You  don't  like  me  no  more!"  she  exclaimed, 
her  eyes  flashing.  "Since  two  years  you  never 
call  me  no  more  *  intend '  — -  never  say  you  want 
me— -never,  never  say  nothing  I  I  don't  care,  me. 
If  you  want,  I'll  marry  ol'  Pietro  Socola.  Any 
how,  he  loves  me  —  speak  with  me  kind,  an'  talk 
with  my  maw  an'  my  paw  fo'  me.  An'  you — you 
say  nothing !  Anybody  can  come,  say  love- words 
an'  get  me — you  don't  care  !  It's  all  right.  Me, 
I  don't  care  neither,  only  fo'  what  you  took  me 
when  I  was  little  an'  know  no  better,  an'  speak 
love-words  with  me — say  I  am  for  you — fool  me 
like  that — an'  now,  now  when  I  am  mo'  bigger  an' 
know  better,  now  when  I  know  to  love,  you  turn 
your  back!  like  to  see  me  marry  some  strange 
man  !  My  God,  if  I  thought  some  bad  man  do 
like  that  to  my  lill  sister  here,  me,  I'd  throw  'er 
right  now  out  the  window!  Better  so  than  like 


31 


me — me  to  love  always  one,  to  think  only  fo'  one, 
since  I  am  like  this  baby,  an'  you  pet  me,  make 
like  you  love  me,  buy  me  every  pretty  thing — an' 
then  when  I  am  mo'  older,  say  I  am  f o'  you — call 
me  always  your  '  intend ' — before  my  maw  an'  my 
paw  an1  everybody  call  me  so — an'  never  in  all  my 
life  speak  no  cross  word  with  me*— an'  now,  when 
I  am  only  for  you,  an'  you  know  it,  you  hate  me  /" 

"  Whist!  Sh-h-h!"  Pat  fairly  hissed,  raising  his 
arm  wildly.  "  Hush,  mavourneen!  Ye're  shpakin' 
blasphemy.  Hush-h-h!  Fo'  the  love  o'  God  say 
no  more  !" 

For  a  moment  he  was  silent.  Then,  raising 
hands  and  face  heavenward,  he  said,  reverently : 

"Holy  Mary,  Mother  av  God,  an'  all  the  saints 
an'  angels,  pass  out  in  a  full-dthress  parade  this 
day,  an'  wutness  this  mericle  in  the  little  shanty 
on  S'int  Andthrew  Street !" 

A  sob  stopped  his  throat  for  a  moment,  but  pres 
ently,  in  a  voice  pitifully  weak  and  low,  he  said  : 

"An'  did  ye  think  yer  ould  'Woona'  turned 
ag'in'  ye,  me  purrty — he  that  was  kissin'  the  sole 
av  yer  dirrty  shoe  this  minute  !  Sure  I  love  ye 
betther  nor  I  love  me  mother  that's  in  heaven,  an' 
God  knows  I'm  not  takin'  'er  down  a  peg  from  'er 
high  station  in  me  recollection  whin  I  do  be  sayin' 
ut — all  honor  to  'er  name,  though  she's  left  me  a 
couple  o'  shpankin's  shorrt  in  me  ginteel  educa 
tion  !  Sui'e  'twas  the  love  in  me  heart  that  sint 
me  on  a  retrate  from  ye,  colleen  bawn.  For  two 
yeers  yer  name  thrimbled  on  me  lips,  an'  yet  I 


32 


feered  to  own  the  truth,  an'  since  I  knowed  ut  for 
a  fact  sure  I  was  afeered  to  show  me  face,  lest  the 
whole  story'd  lake  out  through  the  pores  o'  me 
skin  if  I  kept  me  lips  shut,  an'  ye'd  hate  me  for  a 
dizzy  ould  fool.  An'  now  I  fale — I  fale — my  God, 
I  do  fale  like  a  pig  in  a  puddle,  when  somebody 
frown  'im  a  bookay — sure  he  ate  it  up !  Fo'  the 
love  o'  God,  gi'  me  the  baby  to  howld,  Lottie, 
afore  I  do  take  ye  for  a  bookay!" 

Reaching  forward,  he  actually  took  the  sleep 
ing  child  from  her  arms. 

"  Sure  I'll  howld  'er  for  ballast,  to  kape  me  from 
risin'  into  the  air,  till  I  do  talk  wud  ye  sinsible! 
I'm  that  delerious  I'm  like  a  dthrunken  man  wud 
the  William  o'  Thrimities !  An'  did  ye  think  I 
loved  ye  since  ye  were  like  this  to  fool  ye  ?  Oh, 
but  I  must  talk  wud  ye  like  a  major  to-night,  Lot 
tie."  He  hesitated,  and  when  he  spoke  again  his 
voice  was  touchingly  tender  : 

"  Ye're  but  a  child,  darlint.  I  niver  th rifled  wud 
ye  in  me  life,  an'  I  won't  thrifle  wud  ye  now.  Sure 
an'  if  I  tuck  all  ye're  sayin'  to  me  to-night,  an' 
held  ye  to  ut,  all  I'd  nade  'ud  be  a  pitchfork  an'  a 
tail  for  me  rigimintals  ;  but  I'm  not  lookin'  fo' 
that  line  o'  promotion  !  If  I  was  half  or  a  quarr- 
ter  fit  for  ye,  I'd  thry  to  qualify  the  remainder, 
but  »vud  three-quarrters  o'  unfitness  an'  the  ither 
quarrter  beyant  redimption  in  a  jar  o' alcohol,  sure 
I'd  be  a  dog  to  thry  for  ye." 

"  You  don't  want—" 

Her  eyes  flashed  again. 


33 


"  Sh-h-h  !  My  God,  I  do  want,  I  tell  ye,  an' 
from  this  night  for'ard,  till  he  comes  that  ye  like 
betther  nor  me,  ye're  mine — promised  an'  pledged 
over  the  head  o'  this  slapin'  image  o'  yerself  when 
firrst  ye  thricked  me  ould  heart!  I'm  bound  to 
ye,  remimber,  Lottie  mavourneen,  be  me  own  will, 
to  love  ye,  to  help  ye,  to  fight  for  ye — to  die  for 
ye,  the  day  me  grave  'II  be  a  safe  bridge  over  yer 
throubles !  But  ye  must  be  free  yet,  me  purrty 
little  innocent — free  till  ye've  listened  to  love  at 
its  best.  The  old  man  Socola  can't  give  ye  a 
sample  o'  the  geniuwe  arrticle,  through  his  emp 
ty  gums.  Sure  it's  stale  an'  warrmed  over  in  a 
cracked  oven  an'  all  out  o'  shape  afore  ye  do  get 
it  from  him.  Let  purrty  young  lips  tell  the  story 
an'. purrty  young  eyes  thry  to  hide  ut  from  ye  in 
vain.  Let  one  sing  ut  in  rhyme  an'  anither  clinch 
'is  fists  an'  swear  ut  to  ye,  an'  then  come  an'  tell 
yer  ould  Woona  all  about  ut.  Ye  see,  ye  can't 
fully  undtherstand  till  ye've  had  the  best  lessons 
in  the  language,  no  more  nor  I  c'd  polly  fronsay 
wud  a  Frinchman.  Take  yer  own  time,  me  dar- 
lint,  an'  remimber,  whativer  comes,  Pm  yer  in- 
tinded!  (I'll  say  ut,  if  me  ears  grow  six  inches 
to  the  minute,  to  designate  ass-ification !)  Wull 
ye  thrust  me  now,  an'  do  what  I  say,  an'  kape 
northin'  from  me  ?" 

"  Yas ;  but  I  don't  want  no  French  lessons." 
"  Aha,  but  sure  I  insist  upon  ut !"  he  replied, 
laughing  heartily  at  the  unconscious  humor  of  her 
na'ive  reply. 

3 


34 


"  Sure  an'  I've  waked  the  baby  wud  me  thrum- 
pet's  voice.  Take  'er,  darlint,  an'  go,  afore  yer 
mother  calls  ye,  an'  if  she  asks  ye,  tell  'er  I  urrged 
ye  to  marry  ould  gum-drops,  but  ye'll  die  firrst. 
If  I  do  show  me  hand  I  b'lave  she'd  put  me  out ; 
an'  I  think  ye  may  nade  me  manoeuvrin'  more  norr 
a  skirrmish.  Ye  just  come  down  like  a  thousand 
o'  brick  on  him  an'  the  whole  lot,  an'  say  ye 
won't  an?  nobody  can  make  ye!  An'  I'll  see 
ye  through  ut.  Good -night,  an'  God  bless  ye. 
Sh-h-h-h !" 

This  last  was  to  the  baby,  who  fretted  again  in 
the  transfer  to  Carlotta's  arms.  Placing  one  of 
her  hands  over  the  other  about  the  shoulders  of 
the  sleeping  child,  Pat  laid  his  lips  against  them 
reverently. 

"  God  bless  ye — an'  God  bless  ye,"  he  said,  and 
agarin  as  she  went  down  the  stairs,  "  God  bless 
ye,"  and  he  hobbled  back  to  the  open  window, 
sank  upon  a  chair,  and  in  a  moment  was  sobbing 
— and  sobbing. 

He  felt  so  old,  so  dilapidated,  so  lonely  and  for 
lorn,  so  rough  and  uncouth,  so  far  removed  from 
his  ideal  of  the  man  who  should  dare  aspire  to  the 
love  of  Carlotta — Carlotta,  whose  exquisite  youth 
and  vestal  beauty  stood  her  in  stead  of  all  the 
graces  and  refinements  of  life;  and  yet  he  was  so 
madly  in  love,  so  deliriously  jubilant  over  her  loy 
alty,  which,  no  matter  what  should  come,  was  now 
wholly  his,  that  he  wept  from  a  full  surrender  of 
himself  to  his  conflicting  emotions. 


He  had  sat  here  an  hour,  perhaps,  when  the 
sound  of  excited  talking  below  drew  him  to  the 
head  of  the  stairs.  It  was  the  mother's  voice. 
"  Ogly  !"  she  was  screaming.  "  Ogly  !  Fo'  God 
sague,  Carlo,  list'n  ad  C'lotta  !  Sayce  Signer  Pie- 
tro  Socola  ees-a  wan  ogly  ol'  man  !  Ogly  ees-a 
northeen  !  Ogly  ees-a  good  fo'  wan  man,  pritty 
ees-a  for  a  woma'.  'F  a  man  ees-a  pritty,  ees-a  no 
coun'.  'Z  god-a  too  strong  eye  fo'  pritty,  haf  to 
look  all-a  day  een-a  glass.  Talk  aboud-a  ogly  ! 
My  God,  loog  ad  yo'  pa !  You  thing  me  I  ees-a 
marry  heem  f  o'  pritty  ?" 

The  voice  passed  out  into  the  other  room.  This 
was  only  an  argument  by  the  way.  Pat  turned, 
and,  going  to  his  shelf,  lit  his  candle,  and,  raising 
his .  glass,  moved  it  from  one  angle  to  another, 
studying  his  own  face: 

"An'  I  do  wondher,  fo'  the  love  o'  God,  does 
the  little  darlint  think  me  purrty  ?  Faith  an' 
mebbe  I  am,  but  me  style  is  peculiar  —  a  rustic 
landscape  forninst  a  turrkey-egg  background,  a 
mammoth  cave,  a  natural  bridge  surrounded  by  a 
dinse  perrarie  on  fire,  wud  chips  o'snow  in  among 
the  blazes — throuble  on  the  borrders,  but  refuge 
in  the  middle  !  An'  mebbe  that's  what  the  poor 
child  sees  in  ut !" 

The  interpretation  was  touching  in  its  mingling 
of  humor  and  modesty.  The  face,  while  perhaps 
a  stranger  to  recognized  elements  of  beauty,  was 
yet  more  than  attractive  to  the  observer  who  cared 
to  read  its  meanings.  Generosity,  tender-hearted- 


36 


ness,  intelligence,  wit — can  the  face  on  which  these 
are  written  be  called  ugly  ? 

The  little  blue  eyes  twinkled  anew  as  he  dropped 
the  glass  and,  fastening  a  last  thread  in  Carlotta's 
shoe,  hurried  down-stairs.  There  was  no  longer 
occasion  for  retreat,  as  there  was  nothing  to  hide, 
naught  to  reveal. 

A  general  murmur  of  welcome  from  the  family 
greeted  him  when  he  appeared  in  the  shop.  Even 
Socola,  who  had  just  come  in,  grunted  a  pleasant 
inquiry  as  to  his  health. 

"  Sure  an'  I'm  convalescent,  Misther  Socola,"  he 
said,  his  eyes  dancing  as  he  turned  to  the  old  man 
with  a  friendliness  entirely  new  to  him.  "An* 
how's  yersilf  this  day  o'  the  wake  ?" 

"  Oh,  me,  I  am-a  all-a-way  kip  well.  Feel-a  mo' 
young  efera  day." 

"  Droth  an'  they're  all  alike,"  said  Pat  to  him 
self,  as  he  passed  out.  "There's  northin'  like  a 
wife's  grave  for  makin'  over  ould  min.  Sure  if 
I'd  had  the  foresight  to  marry  lame  Biddy  O'Shea 
afore  ould  Brindle  hooked  'er  into  purrgatory,  I'd 
be  as  much  too  young  as  I  am  too  ould  for  love. 
It  takes  an  ould  codger  like  Socola  to  shtand  sich 
a  h'avin'  set-back  an'  land  out  av  the  cradle." 

Instead  of  joining  the  group  at  the  door  this 
evening,  Pat  preferred  to  walk  abroad,  to  get  the 
fresh  open  air  and  to  find  a  quiet  retreat  to  think 
over  things. 

Hailing  a  passing  car  at  Jackson  street,  he  rode 
out  to  its  terminus  at  the  river,  and,  passing  be- 


37 


yond  the  ferry -landing  into  a  shadowy  corner 
behind  high  piles  of  freight,  he  sat  down. 

In  the  new  retrospect,  Socola  and  his  little  affair 
dwindled  into  utter  insignificance  as  a  trivial  in 
cident  by  the  way. 

He  sat  here  until  past  midnight,  absorbed  in 
his  own  thoughts,  which,  no  matter  which  way  he 
turned,  seemed  punctuated  with  interrogation- 
points.  "  Would  Carlotta  always  love  him  ? 
Was  it  fair  to  her  to  hope  for  this  ?  Was  it  hu 
man  not  to  hope  ?  What  should  he  do  now  ?" 

The  last  question  was  that  which  remained  with 
him.  «  What  should  he  do  ?" 

He  knew  that  these  revived  energies  and  ambi 
tions  that  filled  him  to  his  finger-tips  were  not 
transitory  thrills — unless  the  whole  were  a  dream  ; 
and,  even  so,  he  would  dream  out  an  honorable  so 
lution. 

If  he  were  really  a  man  worthy  a  true  girl's 
passing  fancy  even — to  put  it  safely — and  not  the 
"  ould  granny  "  as  which  he  had  posed  to  himself 
for  all  these  years,  surely  there  must  be  standing- 
room  for  him  somewhere  in  the  world  ;  not  in  the 
rollicking,  frolicking  world  he  had  left,  perhaps,' 
where  two  feet  on  which  to  stand  often  fail  to 
keep  its  inhabitants  erect,  but  in  the  industrial 
world  of  workers  on  the  edge  of  which  he  had 
dozed  so  long. 

During  the  week  following,  while  he  worked  at 
his  bench  in  the  Di  Carlo  shop,  he  was  so  en 
grossed  with  his  own  schemes  that,  but  dimly 


38 


conscious  of  his  surroundings,  he  saw  the  old 
suitor,  Socola,  come  and  go,  and  the  young  men 
congregate  about  the  shop  and  disperse,  with  but 
a  passing  smile.  It  was  only  the  diverting  by 
play  in  his  own  drama  —  and  Carlotta's  —  the 
drama  for  whose  leading  part  he  must  equip 
himself. 

Strange  to  say,  the  signora  had  never  interro 
gated  him  in  regard  to  his  interview  with  Car- 
lotta,  presumably  in  behalf  of  Socola.  The  girl's 
sustained  attitude  of  resistance  was  evidence 
enough  of  its  result.  So  far  as  Pat  observed,  the 
affair  was  drifting  without  special  incident. 

The  little  father  Di  Carlo  still  opened  his  best 
old  wine  for  Pietro  on  Sundays,  and  the  signora 
made  up  in  attention  for  whatever  was  lacking  in 
Carlotta.  , 

So  a  week  passed,  during  which  Pat  had  had 
scarcely  a  private  word  with  the  girl. 

"Pst!  Come  heer,  Lottie,"  he  called,  as  she 
was  passing  through  the  shop  on  Saturday  after 
noon. 

"Sit  down  an'  putt  up  yer  fut  till  I  take  yer 
measure." 

She  obeyed,  coloring  as  she  did  so,  for  she 
knew  the  request  was  only  a  ruse.  Did  he  not 
have  hanging  behind  his  door  a  row  of  lasts  made 
for  her  feet  at  every  stage  of  growth  from  her  in 
fancy  till  now  ? 

"  Now,"  said  he,  "while  I  do  thrick  the  inquis 
itive  wud  me  tape-line,  Lottie,  I  want  to  talk  wud 


39 


ye.  Don't  say  northin'  to  nobody  norr  let  on  ye 
know  ut,  but  I'm  goin'  off  for  a  thrip  for  a  wake 
or  so.  I'll  say  I'm  goin'  for  me  health,  but  sure 
it's  wealth  I'm  afther.  (Faith  an'  if  I  do  lie 
about  the  firrst  letter  o'  the  worrd,  I  do  spind  the 
remainder  in  repintance.)  I'm  lookin'  out  for  a 
betther  job  norr  the  exterrnal  tratement  av  corrns 
an'  bunions — poulticin'  over  wan  man's  worrk  in 
the  cornier  av  anither  man's  shop." 

"  I'm  glad,"  she  said,  and  the  rosy  color  in  her 
face  turned  to  scarlet. 

"I  knowed  ye'd  be  glad,  mavourneen." 

"  Where  you  goin'  ?"  she  added,  quickly. 

"  I'm  goin'  up  the  Jackson  railroad  to  visit  me 
frind  the  Dutchman,  jist.  They  tell  me  he  has  a 
boomin'  thrade  at  Chattawa  in  the  shoe  business, 
an'  he's  only  a  yeer  there,  an'  sure  an'  begorra 
where  Hans  Schmidt  '11  go  I'm  safe  to  vinture, 
for  he  an'  'is  ould  frau  are  but  two  solid  lumps 
o'  prudence." 

"  When  you  goin'  ?" 

"  I'm  off  airly  o'  Monda'  morrnin',  plaze  God, 
an'  look  for  me  back  whin  ye  do  heer  me  peg  on 
the  banquette.  I'm  goin'  a  -  scrimmagin'  an'  a- 
skirrmishin'  till  I  find  what  I  want — a  barefutted 
town  a-wailin'  for  a  wan-legged  shoemaker  ;  an'  " 
— lowering  his  voice — "  Lottie  mavourneen,  be  a 
good  girrl  till  Woona  comes  back,  d'ye  heer  ?  An' 
let  no  one  bully  ye  into  listenin'  to  the  ould  man's 
complaint.  Remimber,  nobody  can  make  ye,  if  ye 
won't.  If  they  belt  ye  up  afore  the  praste,  sure 


40 


yc  cud  shtiffen  out  into  a  dead  faint  an'  they'd  be 
compelled  to  carry  ye  out,  Miss  Di  Carlo  —  an' 
don't  ye  forget  that." 

"I'm  not  'fraid.  My  maw  an'  my  paw  knows 
me.  They  won't  try  nothin'  like  that  on  me." 

"Ye're  solid  on  that,  colleen.  An'  now  I'll 
1'ave  me  adthress  on  a  shlip  o'  paper,  an'  in  case 
ye  do  nade  a  friend,  sind  me  a  line.  An'  now," 
— in  a  louder  tone,  raising  his  tape-line —  "  nine 
inches  an'  a  quarrter  across  the  inshtep — the  same 
from  heel  to  toe."  And  lower  again,  "  I  seen  the 
madam  a-peepin'  twice-t ;  rnebbe  ye  betther  run 
off  now — me  purrty  little  intinded." 

The  last,  in  a  whisper,  just  reached  her  ear, 
spreading  a  fresh  blush  over  her  face  as  she 
arose. 


Ill 

Pat's  business  tour  extended  itself  from  one  to 
two  weeks.  The  idea  of  establishing  himself  in 
some  suburban  town  was  not  new  to  him,  but 
it  had  never  before  seemed  quite  worth  while. 
His  really  worthy  but  conservative  friends,  the 
Schmidts,  though  evidently  quietly  prosperous, 
were  non-committal,  and  would  give  no  advice. 
His  impressions  were  favorable,  however,  and  he 
returned  to  New  Orleans  buoyant  with  promising 
schemes. 

It  was  after  dark  when  he  reached  the  city,  and 


41 


as  he  approached  the  Di  Carlo's  a  row  of  carriage- 
lights  before  the  door  startled  him  so  that  he  felt 
in  danger  of  falling.  Something  unusual  was 
happening.  If  any  one  had  died  he  would  have 
heard:  besides,  who  ever  heard  of  a  night  funeral, 
except  under  extraordinary  circumstances  ?  Could 
it  be  a  wedding  ?  He  had  had  a  strange  forebod 
ing  of  ill.  Why  had  he  left  Carlotta  ? 

Reaching  the  house,  he  hesitated  without,  in 
the  shadow  of  an  open  shutter.  He  must  have  a 
moment  to  still  the  mad  beating  of  his  heart. 

The  window  was  up,  and  through  the  Venetian 
blinds  the  scene  which  greeted  him  was  of  the 
utmost  confusion. 

Socola,  attired  in  his  dress  suit  and  white  kid 
gloves,  bloodless  as  yellow  wax  and  blue  of  lip, 
was  excitedly  walking  up  and  down  the  room. 
About  him,  standing  in  squads  or  sitting  in  groups, 
whispering,  was  a  gathering  of  people,  among 
whom  Pat  recognized  some  of  the  Di  Carlo  kin 
dred,  while  others  were  strangers.  All  were  in 
tensely  excited. 

Just  as  Socola  reached  a  point  near  the  window, 
a  young  woman  crossing  from  the  other  side  of 
the  room  stopped  him. 

Pat  recognized  her  immediately  as  a  cousin  of 
Carlotta,  and,  by  a  coincidence,  one  who  bore  her 
full  name. 

"  I'm-a  shore  I  woun'-a  grief  myself  'boud-a 
Carlotta,  signor,"  she  said,  as  she  excitedly  fanned 
her  dark  fat  face  with  a  light-blue  feather  fan. 


42 


And  so  Carlotta  was  dead!  Pat  leaned  against 
the  house  for  support. 

But  wait.  The  old  man  was  answering  in 
Italian : 

"  Grief !  I  grieve  not  for  her.  She  may  go  to 
the  devil.  I  care  not  for  her,  but  for  myself !  It 
is  the  disgrace!  I  have  come  here  to  marry  her, 
and  if  I  wait  all  night  I  will  have  her !  Money 
is  nothing  to  me.  I  can  pay  the  police — order 
the  detective  force  out — scour  the  city." 

The  girl  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  Oh,  well, 
'z-god-a  just-a  so  good  fish  in  the  riv'  'z-a  come 
oud." 

"But  I  am  not  to  be  mocked!"  The  old  man 
was  hoarse  with  passion.  There  was  a  majesty 
in  his  wrath  which  might  even  have  won  respect 
from  Carlotta  could  she  have  seen  him. 

"She  shall  not  mock  me!"  he  continued.  "Every 
laborer  down  at  the  Picayune  Tier — every  man  on 
the  luggers — all  my  business  comrades — everybody 
knows  the  name  of  Carlotta  Di  Carlo,  and  that  I 
come  to  marry  her  to-night.  I  have  her  mother's 
promise.  She  must  be  found  !" 

"Carlotta  Di  Carlo  ees-a  no  gread-a  name," 
she  replied,  still  in  English,  toying  with  her  fan. 
"  Z-a  my  name  just-a  the  same  ligue-a  my  cous'n. 
Neva  ees-a  bring  me  sudge-a  so  gread-a  good- 
luck."  Just  here  the  door  opened  at  Pat's  side, 
and  a  man  stepped  out.  Fearing  discovery,  he 
immediately  entered  the  house,  where  a  chorus  of 
exclamations  greeted  him : 


43 


"  Carlotta  ces-a  run  away  !" 

"Z-a  jump  oud-a  window  !" 

" runoff!" 

"  Cand  fine-a  no  place." 

In  the  back  room  the  mother  was  noisily  be 
moaning  her  misfortune,  sometimes  in  Italian  and 
then  in  English. 

"  Come  in,  fo'  God  sague,  Meester  Pad !"  she 
cried,  when  she  saw  him.  "  Come-a  see  wad-a 
troub'  we  god-a  theeze  day.  Come,  loog !"  Draw 
ing  him  into  the  back  room,  she  pointed  to  the 
bed,  upon  which  was  spread  an  array  of  finery. 

"  Loog — loog  here  !  All-a  fine  silg  dress,  silg 
pock-a-hankcher — silg  stockin' — silg  hat — keed-a 
glove — keed-a  shoe — gol'  watch-a  chain — gol'  ring 
— loog !  Everytheen-a  so  fine  Signer  Socola  ees-a 
bring'  Carlotta  fo'  marry  weeth-a  heem  to-nighd 
— an'  C'lotta  ees-a  run  away!  Sez  to  me, '  Mus-a 
lock-a  door  fo'  wash-a  myselve ' — just  a  ligue 
thad — an'  ees-a  climb  oud-a  window  an'  gone ! 
Oh,  my  God,  me  I'm-a  crezzy  !" 

"An'. had  she  given  her  consint,  ma'am?"  Pat 
managed  to  ask,  at  last.  He  had  only  listen 
ed  yet. 

"  Consen' !  Geev  -  a  consen' !  No !  Geev  -  a 
northeen !  C'lotta  ees-a  god  on'y  six-a-teen  year. 
Wad-a  chil'  ligue  that  knowce  aboud-a  man  ? 
Don'  know  northeen  boud-a  consen' !" 

"That's  whut  I  say,  ma'am!"  It  was  all  he 
could  do  to  hold  himself,  but  he  remembered  her 
he  loved,  and  in  her  interest  was  silent. 


44 


His  only  fear,  and  this  was  slight,  was  that  they 
should  find  her. 

A  half -hour  passed  slowly.  At  any  unusual 
sound  in  the  front  room  every  one  looked  anx 
iously  towards  the  door,  as  in  a  church  when  the 
bridal  party  is  due. 

Presently  a  distinct  and  sudden  movement  and 
a  renewed  hum  of  voices  indicated  that  something 
had  happened. 

It  was  true.     Something  was  happening. 

The  old  man  Socola,  leading  by  the  hand  the 
other  Carlotta,  the  cousin,  entered  the  room  and 
approached  the  bed.  With  a  dignified  inclination 
of  his  head  to  the  company,  and  pointing  to  the 
display  of  gifts,  he  said  (he  spoke  always  in 
Italian) : 

"  I  present  to  Carlotta  Di  Carlo  those  presents 
which  are  marked  in  the  name  of  Carlotta  Di 
Carlo,  and  when  she  is  dressed  as  my  bride  we 
will  drive  to  the  church.  The  announcement  in 
to-morrow's  papers  shall  prove  that  Pietro  Socola 
has  not  been  disappointed." 

Hesitating  here,  and  gathering  emphasis  by  a 
lowered  voice,  as  he  glanced  with  menacing  brow 
about  him,  he  continued  : 

"What  happens  here  to-night  is  in  the  bosom 
of  Mafia  society !"  They  could  have  heard  a 
pin  drop  now.  "Mafia's  children  can  keep  her 
secrets,"  He  paused  again  and  looked  from  one 
to  another.  "But  if  there  is  a  Judas  here — if 
one  word  passes  that  door — the  knives  of  a  hundred 


43 


of  Mafia's  sons  are  ready  to  avenge  it !  And  I  am 
Pietro  Adolpho  Socola  who  speaks !" 

Pat  was  the  first  to  break  the  death-like  silence 
which  followed. 

"An'  accept  me  warrmest  congratulations, 
Misther  Socola,"  he  said,  stepping  forward  and 
grasping  the  old  man's  white-gloved  hand. 

Others  followed  closely.  Congratulations  were 
now  in  order,  the  new  bride-elect  receiving  her 
accidental  honors  with  ill-concealed  pride. 

A  fresh  wedding-stir  arose,  but  beneath  it  all 
was  a  suppressed  moan,  like  the  irresistible  under 
tow  of  a  playful  sea.  The  missing  girl,  the  lost 
wealth,  the  mystery,  the  humiliation,  Mafia's 
authoritative  command  of  secrecy,  with  its  death- 
penalty — all  these,  as  elements  of  possible  tragedy, 
were  felt,  even  by  the  satellites  of  the  new  bride, 
and  showed  themselves  in  the  subdued  air  and 
blanched  faces  of  the  family  of  the  supplanted. 

Pat  was  the  happiest  person  present,  excepting 
perhaps  the  fat  little  creature  who  in  the  next 
room  was  holding  her  breath  and  panting  while 
one  squeezed,  another  fanned  her,  and  a  third 
burst  off  hooks  and  eyes  in  the  determined  effort 
to  prove  that  the  bridal  gown  designed  for  Car- 
lotta  Di  Carlo  had  not  proved  a  misfit. 

It  was  a  relief  to  all  when  finally  the  wedding- 
party  started  off. 

Those  who  came  in  the  back  carriages  rode 
now  in  front,  the  family  of  Carlo  Di  Carlo  bring 
ing  up  the  rear  as  relations  of  the  bride — "  like 


46 


the  asses  which  always  follow  on  the  tail  of  the 
Rex  procession  on  JVlardi  Gras,"  Pat  heard  the 
little  father  say  in  Italian  to  the  signora,  adding, 
as  he  and  his  sons  got  into  the  last  carriage,  "You 
have  made  us  a  pretty  pack  of  fools  !" 

There  was  that  in  the  husband's  tone  that  made 
the  wife  keep  silent,  but  when  they  had  gone  she 
turned  to  Pat  and  burst  into  violent  weeping. 

For  once  a  woman's  tears  were  powerless  to 
move  him.  Turning  abruptly,  he  left  her  with 
out  a  word,  and  mounted  the  stairs  to  his  own 
room. 

In  a  moment,  however,  he  heard  her  following. 
She  was  not  to  be  so  easily  eluded.  She  must 
have  an  audience.  Her  habit  of  finding  relief  by 
pouring  her  complaint  into  Pat's  ears  was  too 
firmly  fixed  to  be  given  up  at  this  crisis,  when  her 
ignominious  failure  seemed  more  than  she  could 
bear.  Her  cup  had  been  spared  no  possible  dreg 
of  bitterness,  even  to  the  summoning  of  the  hated 
family  of  her  brother-in-law  Di  Carlo  to  witness 
and  reap  a  triumph  in  her  defeat.  This  was  the 
refinement  of  cruelty  ;  and  then,  as  a  finishing- 
touch,  came  Mafia's  command.  They  dare  never 
explain.  Those  stuck-up  Toney  Di  Carlos  might 
give  the  world  any  story  they  chose  but  the  true 
one — the  one  they  would  love  to  keep. 

When  she  appeared  before  him,  panting  from 
her  hasty  ascent,  Pat  thought  she  resembled  noth 
ing  so  much  as  a  hyena  at  bay. 

"  Haf  to  lis'n  ad  me,  Meester  Pad,"  she  began, 


47 


dropping  into  a  chair.  "  God  Almighty  ees-a 
turn  'is  back  on  me  to-nighd — pud-a  me  down 
ligue  wan  dog  biffore  all-a  doze  nasty  Toney  Di 
Carlos !" 

"God  Almighty  done  ut,  d'ye  say?  Ye're 
payin'  yersilf  a  purrty  round  complimint  for  a 
wake-day,  Misthress  Di  Carlo  !  I'd  kape  that  for 
a  Sunday,  till  we  cud  buy  ye  a  tin  halo  an'  putt 
on  our  Sunday  clothes  an'  say  our  beads  to  yer 
Holiness." 

His  wrath  oiled  his  tongue.  Of  course  she  did 
not  understand. 

"  'Z-a  no  time  fo'  play,  Meester  Pad.  Fo'  God 
sague,  you  god-a  no  heart?  See  wan-a  poor 
woma'  in-a  so  gread-a  troub'!" 

"  I  have,  ma'am,  a  palpitator  in  the  vicinity 
o'  me  left  lung,  but  it's  engaged  at  prisent  in  be 
half  o'  the  slip  av  a  child  that's  turrned  out  av  'er 
father's  house  on  a  darrk  night  to  escape  worrse 
nor  a  livin'  death  at  the  hand  av  'er  mother. 
'Tis  a  black  night,  ma'am,  an'  where  is  the  child  ?" 

"  My  God  !"  her  whisper  was  heavy  with  pas 
sion,  "you  tague-a  side  weeth-a  C'lotta?  Me,  I 
don'  care  where  ees  !  Hof  e-a  the  dev's  got  'er  !" 

"  An'  I'll  warrant  ye,  ma'am,  he  has  an  orrgan- 
ized  detective  forrce  out  in  searrch  o'  the  likes 
av  her  to-night,  ye,  may  be  sure  o'  that !  An' 
plinty  illuminated  transums  above  hell's  sky- 
parrlors  '11  open  their  thrap-doors  to  welcome  'er 
in,  wud  music  borrowed  from  heaven  to  entrap 
an  angel !"  His  voice  trembled  with  wrath.  "Sure 


48 


they'll  give  'er  'er  pick  av  bridal  dresses,  an'  a 
sate  at  a  faste  where  the  bread  she'll  ate  '11  be  as 
honest  as  that  ye  offered  'er — raised  from  the  same 
leaven  an'  at  the  same  price  !" 

"  Wad  you  talk,  Meester  Pad  ?  '  Brida '  dress' 
an'-a  same  price  !'  Thing  yo'  head  ees-a  gone 
wrong  !  'Z  no  mo'  rich-a  man's  wan'-a  C'lotta. 
Wad-a  you  say  ?" 

"I  say  the  divil  has  a  shtandin'  ordther  out  for 
brides,  ma'am,  an'  the  city  strates  av  a  darrk  night 
are  his  harvest-field,  an'  whin  an  angel  is  thrapped 
unbeknowinst  to  his  bed,  he  does  mock  heaven 
wud  fresh  fireworrks  an'  ring  the  bells  o'  hell  for 
a  holiday  !  'Tis  tin  o'clock,  mother  Di  Carlo,  an' 
rainin'  cats  an'  dogs  this  minute.  Ye  have  a 
child,  a  fair  bit  av  a  daughter,  out  hidin'  from  ye. 
She  knows  no  people.  'Tis  the  firrst  time  nine 
o'clock  iver  missed  'er  from  her  little  thrundle- 
bed.  Can  ye  tell  me  in  whose  back  alley  I'll  find 
'er  skulkin',  like  an  odd  cat,  an'  bring  'er  home  to 
the  mother  that's  grievin'  after  'er  ?" 

His  passion  calmed  the  woman.  She  looked 
dazed,  but  answered  him  nothing. 

"  If  yer  Divinity  '11  parrdon  me  shirrt-slaves 
till  I  do  putt  on  me  rain-coat,  I'll  shtep  out 
mesilf  an'  see  if  bechance  her  ould  granny  can 
thrace  'er." 

Crossing  the  room,  he  proceeded  to  raise  the 
lid  of  his  trunk,  but  it  resisted.  It  was  fastened 
— on  the  inside  ! 

For  a  second  only  voice  and  wit  failed  him. 


49 


"  Ye'll  excuse  me  manners,  ma'am,  fer  lavin' 
me  saloon-parrlor  whin  I've  company,  but  I've 
a  call  to  enlist  on  the  opposition  to  the  divil's 
forrce,"  he  said,  and,  with  a  bow,  "  Wull  ye  walk 
firrst,  Misthress  Di  Carlo  ?" 

Sniffling,  but  silent,  the  woman  arose  and  pre 
ceded  him  down  the  stairs. 

Following,  he  hurried  into  the  street,  but  re 
turned  in  a  moment. 

"  Betther  go  back  for  me  rubber  boot  an'  me 
bumberel,"  said  he.  "  Sure  the  strates  are  flowin' 
wud  wather."  And  hastily  he  reascended  the 
stairs. 

"  Whst !"  he  called,  tapping  gently  upon  the 
trunk,  and  "  sh-h-h  !"  as  the  girl's  head  pushed 
up  the  lid. 

"Glory  be  to  God  Almighty!"  he  whispered,  as 
he  carefully  aided  her  to  rise  from  her  cramped 
position,  though  she  remained  sitting  in  the 
trunk. 

"  An'  did  me  ould  box  harber  ye  again,  me  little 
wan  ?  An'  why  didn't  ye  write  me  the  letther  ?" 

"  I  never  knowed  I  haf  to  get  married  till  to 
night.  My  maw  sez  to  me  I  mus'  marry  Socola, 
on  'coun'  o'  my  po'  lill  brothers  an'  sisters  an' — " 

"Sh-h!     Spake  aisy,  mavourneen." 

"  Then  I  seen  my  only  chance  was  to  run  away. 
It  was  dark  outside.  I  was  afraid.  So  then  I 
thought  about  the  trunk,  an'  I  climbed  up  over 
the  back  shed — " 

"  Niver  mind  now,  daiiint.     I  musht  go  ;  the 


50 


madam  '11  be  af ther  missin'  me.  But  you  stay  beer. 
Make  yersilf  at  home  to-night  in  me  ould  din.  I'll 
shlape  below  in  the  shop,  an'  tell  thim  I'm  on  the 
watch  for  ye,  which  '11  be  God's  truth.  Ye're  not 
to  make  yer  appeerance  till  she's  wapin'  an  wailin' 
for  a  sight  av  ye.  Shtrike  no  light,  an'  off  wud 
yer  shoes.  I'll  mano3tivre  below -stairs,  an'  ye 
kape  silence  above." 

"  You  think  the  old  man  '11  come  back  for  me  to 
morrow  again  ?"  she  asked,  anxiously. 

"  Heavens  above !  An'  didn't  ye  know  he's  mar 
ried  to  yer  cousin  Carlotta?" 

The  tension  had  been  so  great  that,  at  this  sud 
den  relief,  the  girl,  trembling,  bent  her  head  upon 
her  arm  over  the  edge  of  the  trunk,  and  fell  to 
sobbing  hysterically. 

Pat  was  frightened  lest  she  should  be  overheard, 
for  he  dreaded  the  mother's  unspent  rage.  He 
laid  his  hand  tenderly  upon  her  head. 

"  Sh-h  !  The  throuble's  over  now,  darlint,  an' 
Woona's  heer  to  thrash  onybody  but  yer  mother, 
an'  it's  she  that  mustn't  heer  ye  !" 

A  sound  of  loud  talking  below  reassured  him, 
however.  The  father  and  brothers  had  returned 
from  the  wedding. 

Carlotta  heard  it,  and  the  distraction  soon  quiet 
ed  her.  With  Pat's  aid  she  presently  arose,  and 
together  they  cautiously  approached  the  opening. 

In  the  tumult  the  father's  voice-  prevailed.  He 
spoke  in  Italian  : 

"  What  am  I,  that  my  wife  lies  to  me  ?     You 


51 


said  the  child  consented.  You  lied,  lied!  I  told 
you  you  should  not  compel  her.  You  are  paid. 
I  am  glad.  But  I  want  my  daughter.  Where  is 
the  child  ?  What  can  I  do  ?  Where  I  go  to  seek 
her  I  spread  an  ugly  tale  —  Carlotta,  the  pretty 
daughter  of  Di  Carlo,  is  not  in  her  father's  house 
at  night.  A  sweet  story,  that !  Oh,  my  wife  is  a 
fine  schemer  —  got  a  rich  husband  for  Toney's 
ugly  girl  with  the  pimply  face.  Ha !  she  is 
kind,  yes — I  am  glad,  but,  only,  I  want  my  lit 
tle  girl." 

In  the  midst  of  this,  but  not  heeding  it,  the 
woman  was  contesting  her  position  in  broken  Eng 
lish —  an  appeal  for  sympathy  to  the  English- 
speaking  boys,  her  sons. 

"Fo'  who  ees  I  lie?"  she  screamed,  between 
sobs.  "  Wad  ees-a  money  f o'  me  ?  Rich  or  po' 
ees-a  all-a  same  to  me.  God-a  rock-a  cradle  fo' 
you— dthaz  all !  'F  I  lie,  'z  fo'  you,  an'  fo'  C'lotta 
selve.  An'  now  everybody  ees  -  a  blame  me ! 
Weesh,  me,  I  was  dead.  You  ees-a  curse  me, 
Meester  Pad  ees-a  sassy  me  to  my  face,  an'  all  on 
'coun'  o'  C'lotta !" 

"Slip  !"  hissed  the  old  man.  "No  more!  Show 
me  my  child,  and  we  speak  never  of  this  again. 
I  am  not  blameless.  I  consented,  but  not  to  force 
her.  You  were  tempted,  and  she  saved  you.  It 
is  well.  We  have  not  sold  our  first  babe  to  feed 
the  last.  But  I  want  her  here.  I  want  my  little 
girl." 

"  I'm  goin',  Woona,"  said  Carlotta,  starting  sud- 


52 


denly.  She  would  have  descended  the  stairs,  but 
Pat  held  her  arm. 

"  Not  from  beer,  darlint.  Ye've  kept  the  thrunk 
secret  for  a  dozen  years — " 

She  understood,  and,  agile  as  a  cat,  had  dashed 
by  him  in  the  other  direction,  and  was  out  the  win 
dow  on  the  roof  before  he  realized  her  intention. 
She  would  return  as  she  had  come. 

Pat  hobbled  after  her  to  the  window.  She  had 
just  reached  the  corner  of  the  low  shed  (where 
an'  overhanging  fig-tree  afforded  safe  and  pri 
vate  transit  to  the  ground),  when  she  suddenly 
returned  and  laid  her  hand  on  the  Irishman's 
arm. 

"Don't  be  mad.  You  are  good.  I  like  you, 
WoonS,,  but  I  never  knowed — 

She  began  to  cry. 

"  I  never  knowed  my  paw  liked  me  before  ;  haf 
to  go  to  him." 

Pat  was  choked  with  emotion,  and  before  he 
could  answer  her  the  slim  shadow  of  the  girl  had 
flitted  down,  and  was  merged  into  the  broad  shad 
ow  of  the  tree. 

Though  the  rain  was  over,  the  night  was  dark. 

Pat's  heart  was  thumping  so  when  he  returned 
to  his  vantage-ground  at  the  head  of  the  stairs 
that  he  had  to  sit  down. 

Soon  he  heard  a  timid  knock  at  the  street  door 
—  Carlotta  was  a  cute  one  —  then  a  rush  of  boys' 
heavy  feet,  a  clank  of  iron  as  the  hook  was  raised, 
and  now,  through  the  open  door,  loud  crying,  like 


53 


the  heart-sobs  of  a  little  child.  So  Carlotta  met 
her  father. 

By  ducking  his  head  very  low,  Pat  saw,  for  a 
second  only,  the  little  reticent  old  man  with  out 
stretched  arms  going  to  meet  her  ;  and  he,  sitting 
alone  on  the  top  step,  blubbered  like  a  school-boy, 
but  no  one  heard  him. 

Pat  could  scarcely  realize  that  he  had  been  home 
hardly  three  hours  when,  a  few  minutes  later,  he 
looked  at  his  watch  to  find  it  but  eleven  o'clock. 

So  far  as  he  could  discover,  the  affair  was  never 
alluded  to  in  the  household  afterwards  ;  but  for  a 
long  time  between  himself  and  the  signora  a  dis 
tinct  coldness  was  felt  which  made  him  uncom 
fortable. 

His  anger  towards  her  had  soon  melted,  but  he 
wanted  it  forgotten.  She  was  no  worse  than  many 
rich  mothers.  Her  methods  were  only  a  little 
more  crude. 

He  had  easily  forgiven  her,  since  she  had  failed. 
Though  she  had  had  no  conception  of  the  force  of 
his  words,  she  realized  that  he  had  blamed  and 
silenced  her — had  "  sassied  her  to  her  face  " — and 
it  was  hard  to  forget  it.  And  then,  too,  her  re 
lations  were  somewhat  embarrassed  with  all  who 
knew  of  the  affair. 

"I  wonder,"  said  he  one  evening  a  few  weeks 
later,  as  he  sat  near  her  at  the  door — "I  Avonder 
wud  the  madam  wear  a  pair  o'  shoes  o'  my  makin'  ? 
I'll  guarantee  I  cud  make  ye  a  bully  pair  '11  do  ye 


54 


through  the  next  christening  an'  ye'll  be  dthrag- 
gin'  'em  slip-shod  till  the  wan  afther  that  ag'in." 

"Oh,  you  ees-a  so  bad,  Meester  Pad!"  she  ex 
claimed,  with  a  hearty  laugh  delightfully  like  the 
familiar  ring  of  old  times.  "How  much-a  price 
you  goin'-a  charge  me  ?" 

"  Charrge  ye  !  Well,  I'll  be  dog-goned  if  ye're 
not  complimintary  !  I'll  charrge  ye  enough,  sure, 
whin  ye  do  bring  me  yer  ordher  for  a  pair,  but 
whin  I  do  make  ye  a  presint  I'll  ask  ye  a  returrn 
o'  what  I  do  putt  into  the  job — a  free  confession 
o'  frindly  feelin',  jist.  Whut  do  ye  say,  ma'am?" 

Laughing,  she  stuck  out  her  heavy  foot.  "  'Z  big 
'nough  speak  fo'  heemselve  !" 

And  so  the  old  relations  were  restored. 

Pat  had  been  especially  desirous  of  this  recon 
ciliation  because  of  his  contemplated  change  of 
residence,  which  of  course  the  signora  did  not  sus 
pect. 

Exactly  what  arrangement  would  result  from 
his  reconnoitring  tour  he  did  not  yet  know,  but 
the  matter  was  unexpectedly  decided  one  day  by 
the  receipt  of  a  formal  business  proposal  of  part 
nership  with  his  German  friend,  Hans  Schmidt. 

The  old  fellow  was  growing  decrepit,  and  wished 
to  rest.  The  offer  was  framed  with  characteristic 
caution,  and  its  terms  were  hard,  but  in  his  pres 
ent  mood  Pat  was  all  the  better  pleased,  and  so 
the  matter  was  settled. 

He  would  still  call  the  Di  Carlo  garret  "  home," 
and  would  come  on  Sunday  mornings  and  stay 


55 


until  Monday.     Chattawa  was  but  a  few  hours' 
run  from  the  city. 

All  the  signora's  sentiments  towards  him  were 
sensitized  and  perfumed  with  the  generous  odor 
of  fresh  shoe-leather  when  Pat  told  her  of  his 
plans,  and  she  said  so  many  touching  things  about 
breaking  up  the  family,  and  the  like,  that  he  add 
ed  forgetf ulness  to  his  forgiveness  of  her  sin,  and 
they  almost  wept  upon  each  other's  bosoms  when 
he  went  away. 


IV 

Time  dragged  rather  heavily  at  the  Di  Carlos' 
after  Pat's  departure.  There  was  no  one  now  al 
ways  ready  to  give  a  humorous  turn  to  common 
place  things — to  raise  a  playful  breeze  over  the 
dull  monotony  of  every-day  life.  Whether  the 
baby  bumped  her  head  or  a  customer  quarrelled 
over  his  bill,  the  occurrence,  served  up  with  Pat's 
piquant  wit,  had  always  become  a  delightful 
joke. 

It  is  possible  that  not  even  Carlotta  missed  him 
more  than  did  the  signora.  And  the  little  family 
toes  missed  him!  Dainty -pink  buttons  that  had 
not  been  allowed  to  see  the  light  came  all  the  way 
out,  as  if  to  inquire  for  the  absent  Pat,  and  grew 
familiar  with  the  floor  and  the  banquette,  like  other 
little  dago  children's  toes.  And  yet  the  signora 
vowed  that  she  had  done  nothing  but  pay  out 


56 


money  for  shoe-patching  ever  since  Mr.  Pat  went 
away. 

In  the  evenings  the  young  men  and  boys  still 
came  and  laughed  and  talked  with  Carlotta. 

At  first  there  had  been  occasional  expressions 
of  surprise,  with  inquisitive  glances,  at  Socola's 
marriage  to  the  other,  but  the  mother's  flat  and 
surprised  denial  of  her  Carlotta's  ever  having  been 
thought  of  in  so  absurd  a  connection  soon  silenced 
all  concern  about  the  matter. 

Pat  came  usually  on  Saturday  night  or  Sunday, 
and  was  always  an  honored  guest.  "  The  mad 
am"  never  tired  of  rehearsing  to  him  the  events 
of  the  week  or  exhibiting  the  baby's  last  tooth  or 
promising  gums,  nor  did  she  ever  fail  to  hold  out 
for  his  inspection  "the  mos'-a  easy-walkin'  pai' 
shoe  ees-a  ever  was-a  wear." 

And  so  weeks  lapped  over  weeks  until  months 
had  passed  and  folded  likewise  one  upon  the  other. 

Carlotta  was  still  to  her  fond  old  lover  a  dainty 
little  saint  within  a  high  niche,  and  when  he  said 
his  "  Hail  Mary  "  at  night,  as  he  had  tried  to  do 
ever  since  he  had  confessed  himself  in  love,  he 
kept  seeing  her  picture  sitting  in  the  garret  win 
dow  in  the  moonlight,  and  wondering  how  far  his 
piety  was  at  fault.  Even  irreligious  men  say 
prayers  when  they  are  honestly  and  purely  in 
love.  Pat  was  only  unreligious. 

He  still  told  himself,  as  he  told  her,  that  she 
was  free,  and  must  listen  untrammelled  to  any 
story  of  love  that  should  please  her;  and  yet, 


57 


when  he  laid  by  small  sums  of  money,  he  thought, 
"How  purrty  it'll  shtuff  out  'er  little  pockut- 
book !"  or,  "I  wondher  wull  she  lave  ut  in  a  dhry- 
goods  shop  or  hide  ut  in  an  ould  shtockun' ! — but, 
savin'  or  shpindin',  sure  she'll  be  handlin'  'er  own, 
God  bless  her." 

He  expected  to  find  young  men  sitting  around 
the  shop  in  the  evenings  when  he  came  home,  and 
the  sound  of  an  accordion  or  flute  or  tambourine 
or  familiar  laughter  reaching  him,  as  he  approached 
the  house,  served  but  to  identify  the  crowd. 

It  was  only  when  the  accordion  became  his  in 
variable  greeting,  when,  even  descending  upon 
the  family  in  the  middle  of  the  week,  he  found  it 
still  there,  that  he  began  to  consider  that  Carlotta 
had  never  told  him  about  this  young  musician, 
except  to  give  his  name  in  answer  to  a  question. 

It  seemed  absurd  to  think  seriously  of  so  trivial 
a  matter  ;  and  yet,  when  a  long  time  passed  and 
the  accordion,  long-winded  or  short  of  breath  ac 
cording  to  the  player's  mood,  sent  its  voice  out 
panting  or  trilling  to  meet  him,  he  began  to  hate 
the  sound  of  it,  and  to  wish  that  Carlotta  would 
sometimes  talk  upon  the  subject. 

She  had  told  him  how  young  Alessandro  Socpn- 
neti,  who  won  a  prize  in  the  lottery,  had  wanted 
her,  and  how  Joe  Zucca,  the  peanut-vender,  had 
vainly  insisted  on  her  love,  and  even  of  her  cousin 
Angelo,  who  had  tried  to  coax  her  to  forget  his 
kinship.  Why  had  she  forgotten  to  mention  this 
strange  boy  who  played  the  accordion  ? 


58 


Pat  seldom  saw  her  alone  now  excepting  when 
occasionally  on  Sunday  afternoons  he  would  take 
her  with  the  children  for  a  ride  up  to  the  park,  as 
had  been  his  habit  for  years.  While  the  little 
ones  played  under  the  oaks  or  braided  clover 
wreaths  near,  he  would  sit  at  her  feet  on  the 
gnarled  roots  of  the  old  trees  and  tell  her  about 
his  life  at  "  the  Dutchman's,"  and  sometimes, 
though  not  often,  he  would  speak  of  how  he  had 
missed  her  out  of  his  daily  life. 

He  avoided  this  as  much  as  possible,  however. 
It  was  so  hard  to  be  a  little  tender  when  in  his 
Irish  heart  was  smouldering  a  fire  that  at  the 
lightest  breath  would  flare  into  a  flame. 

He  had  promised  himself  and  her  to  wait  until 
she  should  pass  her  eighteenth  year  before  allow 
ing  her  to  bind  herself  by  solemn  promise. 

She  knew  that  he  loved  her — that  he  was  work 
ing  early  and  late,  living  with  people  who  were  in 
touch  with  him  only  in  their  determination  to 
make  money — and  that  it  was  all  for  her. 

Sometimes,  growing  weary  of  his  silence,  she 
would  invite  a  declaration  by  some  naive  question 
put  in  monosyllables,  as  when  she  said,  one  Sun 
day,  as  they  rose  to  start  home  : 

"  You  like  me  yet,  Woona  ?" 

"  Like  ye  yet !  Arrah,  musha,  an'  whut  're  ye 
sayin',  darlint  ?  Like  ye  ?  Sure  I  love  ye,  from 
the  crown  av  yer  purrty  little  black  head  to  the 
sole  av  yer  two  feet,  an'  all  the  way  back,  wud  a 
lap  over  !  An'  why  d'ye  ask  me  that  ?" 


59 


But  instead  of  answering  him,  she  only  colored 
like  a  rose,  and  saidr 

"I'm  glad." 

And  Pat,  lifting  the  children  into  the  car,  felt 
like  kicking  his  wooden  leg  to  the  winds  and  fly 
ing  ;  but  he  only  said,  as  he  sat  beside  her: 

"  Begad,  an'  I'm  glad  ye're  glad,  mavourneen. 
Sure  sorrow  '11  dim  my  day  whin  ye're  sorry." 
And  as  he  raised  his  eyes  he  saw,  sitting  opposite, 
a  young  man  who  smiled  and  tipped  his  hat  to 
Carlotta — and  under  his  arm  he  carried  an  accor 
dion. 

As  he  looked  upon  him,  Pat  felt  a  shiver  pass 
over  him,  for  he  thought  he  had  never  seen  a 
youth  so  beautiful  as  he. 

"  That's  Giuseppe  Rubino,"  said  Carlotta,  look 
ing  into  his  eyes  with  the  directness  of  a  child. 

"  Is  it,  indade  ?  Sure  I  tuck  'im  for  a  vision  of 
S'int  Joseph  or  wan  av  the  angels.  An'  isn't  he  a 
beauty?" 

"  He  sings  pritty,"  replied  the  girl,  as  she  might 
have  said,  "It  is  growing  cold,"  or,  "  The  river  is 
rising." 

Pat  regarded  her  with  covert  scrutiny  for  a 
moment.  Could  it  be  possible  that  she  did  not 
see  that  this  tall  brown  boy,  with  his  soft  red  lips 
and  white  teeth,  his  lofty  movement  and  languid 
grace,  was  a  creatur'e  of  rare  and  poetic  beauty  ? 

Had  she  too  not  seen  the  red  deepen  beneath 
the  olive  of  his  cheek  when  his  eye  met  hers? 
Had  she  not  learned  in  all  the  summer  evenings 


GO 


what  Pat  had  caught  in  a  twinkling— that  the 
youth  loved  her  with  all  the  fresh  ardor  of  a  nat 
ure  fashioned  for  romance  ? 

It  seemed  not;  for  she  remarked,  in  the  same 
even  tone : 

"  He  comes  ev'ry  evenin'  pass  the  time  away. 
He  plays  nice." 

If  she  had  been  saying  she  hated  the  boy,  it 
would  not  have  kept  Pat's  heart  from  thumping 
against  his  waiscoat  while  his  eyes  rested  on  the 
beautiful  youth  who  was  helping  the  girl  he  loved 
to  "pass  the  time  away"  during  his  absence. 

"  An'  whut  does  he  do  for  a  livin'  ?  Sure 
there's  little  money  in  the  machine  he  carries, 
wud  all  its  puffin'  an'  blowun'.  " 

"  He's  pore.  He  works  fo'  ol'  Socola.  He  hates 
him,  too.  He's  savin'  up.  Bimeby  he's  goin'  to 
start  for  'isself." 

"  An'  who  told  ye  all  that,  Lottie  ?" 

"  He  tol'  me." 

"  An'  where  did  ye  meet  um  ?" 

"  He  come  to  fetch  my  paw  a  note  from  ol'  So 
cola.  He  say  he  seen  me  first  in  his  sleep  one 
night.  He  talks  funny.  I  don'  pay  no  'tendon." 

It  was  time  to  stop  the  car;  but  before  Pat 
could  do  so  the  young  man  had  pulled  the  strap 
and  was  going  out. 

"  Please  to  make  you  'quainted  wid  Mister  Ru- 
bino,  Mister  Rooney,"  said  Carlotta,  as  Giuseppe, 
smiling;  joined  them,  and  the  three,  Carlotta  in 
the  middle,  followed  the  children  home. 


"AND  THE  THREE  FOLLOWED  THE  CHILDREN  HOME" 


61 


If  Pat  appeared  at  a  disadvantage,  no  one  was 
half  so  conscious  of  it  as  himself  as  he  hobbled 
beside  the  youthful  pair  on  his  wooden  peg. 

Ever  since  he  had  loved  the  girl,  he  had  been 
keenly  sensitive  in  regard  to  his  lameness.  In 
deed,  he  had  even  once  gone  so  far  as  to  try  to 
repair  it  by  wearing  an  artificial  leg,  but,  as  Car- 
lotta  had  shrunk  away  from  it  as  something  un 
canny,  declaring  that  it  "made  her  think  about 
dead  people,"  he  had  discarded  it  after  a  single 
experiment. 

It  seemed  but  natural  that  Pat  should  sit  with 
"the  old  folks"  while  Carlotta  and  the  youth 
joined  the  young  group  at  the  other  door  to-night ; 
it  was  quite  natural  that  Giuseppe  should  presently 
be  playing  the  accordion  for  the  crowd — the  same 
thing  had  happened  before,  many  a  time;  and  yet 
to-night  Pat  felt  it  all  as  he  had  never  done  be 
fore. 

"A  fine -lookin' chap  is  this  young  man  Ru- 
bino,"  he  said,  presently,  to  the  signora. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  And  who  is  'e  ?"  he  pursued. 

"  Carlo  sayce  ees  -  a  wan  good  steady  young 
man;  bud  me,  I  know  northeen  'boud  who  ees-a 
keep-a  comp'ny  weeth-a  C'lotta."  And  the  shoul 
ders  shrugged  again,  a  movement  so  distinctly 
reminiscent  of  the  previous  affair  that  Pat  thought 
it  discreet  to  change  the  subject. 

As  the  evening  wore  on,  he  grew  restless. 

"  Well,  I  b'lave  I'll  thry  a  promenade  for  me 


62 


complexion,"  said  he,  rising  finally.  "Sure  me 
left  fut  is  itchin'  for  a  walk."  And,  with  this 
characteristic  allusion  to  the  missing  member,  he 
started  down  the  street.  He  had  not  gone  far, 
however,  when  he  came  upon  a  crowd  of  young 
men,  Italians  most  of  them,  sitting  upon  the  steps 
outside  the  closed  doors  of  a  shop  —  a  common 
Sunday -evening  congregation — and,  as  a  familiar 
voice  accosted  him,  he  had  soon  seated  himself 
with  them. 

Several  of  the  habitues  of  the  Di  Carlo  shop 
were  present,  and  were  bantering  one  another  in 
Italian  about  Carlotta.  Pat  was  not  supposed  to 
understand. 

All  went  smoothly  for  a  time,  until  young  Tra- 
monetti,  an  ugly,  heavily-set  fellow  who  had  been 
the  target  of  several  sallies  on  the  score  of  his 
well-known  unsuccessful  suit,  suddenly  turned  in 
anger. 

"  I  could  marry  her  to  -  morrow  if  I  had 
money !"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  sneer. 

"  Psh-h-h  !  You'd  have  to  get  a  new  face  on 
you  first !"  came  a  quick  retort. 

"  I  think  my  face  is  just  as  pretty  as  old  Pietro 
Socola's  ;  and  she  tried  hard  enough  to  get  him, 
all  the  same  !" 

"You  better  say  he  tried  for  her,  yes,"  was  the 
reply. 

Pat,  although  talking  quietly  aside,  caught  and 
understood  every  word. 

"  Tried  nothing  !"  continued  Tramonetti.    "  He 


63 


never  wanted  her.  Married  her  rich  cousin,  yes  ! 
But  Carlotta  tried  pretty  hard  to  get  him.  My 
self  saw  her  every  minute  pass  before  him  in  the 
shop  and  make  sheep's-eyes  !" 

Pat  could  stand  no  more. 

"  An'  I  say  ye're  a  liur!"  he  exclaimed,  rising 
and  facing  the  speaker. 

The  effect  of  his  words  was  magical.  A  still 
ness  fell  upon  the  assembly.  After  an  interval,  an 
old  man,  Tramonetti's  uncle,  broke  the  silence. 

"  Wath-a  you  knowce  'bouth  ?"  he  asked,  turn 
ing  languidly  to  the  Irishman  with  that  apathetic 
manner  beneath  which  anything  may  lurk. 

"Sure  an'  I  do  jist  happen  accidintally  to  know 
that  that  young  man  is  a  liur  !" 

The  object  of  his  accusation  quietly  lit  a  ciga 
rette. 

"  How  ees-a  you  knowce  ?  Socola  selve  ees-a 
tell  evera-body  neva  ees-a  lov'-a  tall.  Wath-a  you 
knowce  ?" 

And  now  another  spoke — a  cousin  of  Tramo- 
netti. 

"  Socola  ees-a  tell  all-a  mans  on  Picayune  Tier 
she  ees-a  try  for  'eem  all-a  same." 

Grunts  of  assent  in  several  directions  testified 
that  the  story  was  familiar. 

"An'  he's  another  liur,  an'  I'd  tell  ut  to  'is 
gums,  the  toothless  ould  macaroni-sucker  !  Sure 
an'  I've  had  me  two  eers  pricked  for  this  same  lie 
this  twelvemonth,  an',  bedad,  I've  laid  low  an'  kep' 
shtill  for  ut!  An'  did  'e  say  she  timed  to  catch 


64 


'im — the  contimptible  little  river  shrimp — he  that 
had  'is  two  eyes  set  out  like  yung  telescopes  af- 
ther  'er!" 

"  Fo'  God  sague,  don'-a  mague-a  no  troub' ! 
Blief  Socola  ees-a  just  talk  fo'  play  !"  suggested 
another. 

"  Thin  I'm  playin'  when  I  tell  ye  that  he  thried 
wud  all  the  iloquent  perrsuasion  av  his  money 
bags  to  buy  'er! — offered  the  ould  man  a  thousand 
dollars  down  for  'er,  an'  pitched  'imself  in  at  the 
end  o'  the  thrade,  like  a  punkin-colored  chromo 
for  lagniappe  ;  but  the  girrl — sure  I  do  raise  me 
hat  whin  I  do  sphake  'er  name  " — every  hat  fol 
lowed  as  he  lifted  his  own — "  but  the  girrl  wudn't 
look  ut  um !  An'  the  night  he  married  'er  pug- 
nosed  cousin,  sure  he  kem  in  the  kerridge  wud  all 
'is  crowd  for  'erself,  an'  she  shkipped  out  the  win 
dow  an'  hid.  So  whin  he  cudn't  get  corrn  'e  took 
shucks,  as  mony  o'  ye  '11  do  af ther  'im  !  Now,  putt 
that  in  yer  pipe  an'  shmoke  ut !" 

He  turned  now  again  to  Tramonetti. 

"An'  this  yung  gas-chandelier  heer,  who  sez  'e 
seen  'er  wink  at  'im,  is  a  dirrty  black — " 

"  Ah-h-h-h!  Ged  oud!  'M  just  a  mague  a  lill-a 
fun!"  drawled  the  boy. 

"  An'  ye  take  ut  back,  wul  ye  ?" 

The  men  were  all  laughing  now  at  the  new  ver 
sion  of  the  Socola  marriage. 

"  So  the  ol'  man  got  fooled,  eh  ?"  said  one. 

"  But  I  say,  d'ye  take  ut  back  ?"  persisted  Pat. 

"  Ain't  I  sayce  was-a  play'n'  ?     Fo'  God  sague, 


65 


how  rauch-a  mo*  you  wan'  ?"  And  he  rose 
to  go. 

The  storm  was  past,  and  by  twos  and  threes 
the  men  dispersed,  laughing  and  talking  as  they 
went. 

As  Pat  moved  away,  an  old  man  who  had  sat 
apart  in  the  shadow  stood  up,  and  the  light  from 
the  gas  at  the  corner  fell  upon  a  visage  sinister, 
one-eyed,  and  lowering. 

Pat  instantly  recognized  it  as  the  face  of  a  man 
who  had  been  present  at  the  Di  Carlos'  on  the 
night  of  the  Socola  wedding.  Indeed,  it  was  he 
who  had  been  sent  to  Pat  as  interpreter,  on  this 
occasion,  of  the  Mafia  anathema.  Pat  thought  of 
this,  but  he  did  not  care. 

As  he  turned  his  back,  another  man  arose  out 
of  the  shadow  at  the  other  end  of  the  shed.  He 
too  had  been  a  guest  at  the  wedding. 

The  two  Sicilians,  who  were  presently  left  alone, 
regarded  each  other  in  silence  for  a  moment,  when 
the  last  to  rise  made  the  sign  of  the  Mafia.  The 
answering  motion  was  given,  and  the  two,  still 
silent,  sat  down  together  again  in  the  shadow. 

They  were  bound  by  oath  to  report  this  disclos 
ure  to  Socola,  and  they  knew  what  the  inevitable 
result  would  be :  the  Irishman's  words  would 
prove  his  death-sentence. 

Under  the  vow  of  perfect  obedience,  either  or 
both  of  them  might  become  the  executors  of  an 
old  man's  personal  vengeance. 

It  was  an  ugly  business,  and  neither  of  the  men 

5 


66 


welcomed  it.  Both  knew  Pat's  cordial  relations 
with  many  of  their  countrymen,  among  whom,  in 
deed,  he  had  not  a  single  enemy.  Even  the  old 
man  Socola  liked  him.  But  they  understood  too 
well  the  imperious  pride  of  the  vindictive  old  Si 
cilian  to  hope  that  a  personal  friendship,  or  even 
a  tie  of  blood,  would  protect  any  man  who  dared 
betray  his  dignity.  Certainly  the  casual  feeling 
of  negative  good-will  which  he  felt  towards  Pat 
would  melt  like  snow  beneath  the  hot  breath  of 
his  wrath  when  he  should  learn  that  the  Irishman 
had  given  his  secret  to  the  common  herd  of  his 
countrymen.  The  indomitable  pride  which  had 
led  him  to  marry  an  ugly,  unattractive  woman  the 
first  time  he  met  her,  rather  than  brook  the  odium 
of  a  disclosure  of  his  rejection,  would  not  spare 
him  who,  although  forewarned,  had  dared  di 
vulge  it. 

It  was  some  moments  before  either  of  the  men 
spoke,  and  then  one  said,  in  Italian  : 

«  Well—" 

"  Well — "  was  the  answer.    And,  after  a  pause: 

"  I  wish  I  had  gone  home  to-night." 

"  And  me  too.  I  wish  I  had  stayed  at  the  cof 
fee-house." 

"  He's  a  good  friend  to  all  the  Carlo  Di  Carlos, 
that  old  Irishman." 

"  Yes,  I  know.  Last  year,  when  all  the  babies 
took  the  small-pox  and  the  shop  was  shut  up, 
he  signed  for  the  rent ;  and  he  paid  every  cent 
since — three  months'  rent." 


67 


"  Yes,  and  old  Di  Carlo  says  Carlotta's  school 
ing  never  cost  him  a  dollar.  This  cripple  paid 
it  all." 

"  And  when  the  old  man  was  stung  with  a  taran 
tula  hidden  in  a  bunch  of  bananas,  while  every 
body  cried  and  ran  every  way,  they  say  the  shoe 
maker  threw  his  hat  on  the  spider  and  sat  on  it 
quick,  while  he  took  little  Di  Carlo  across  his 
knee  like  a  baby  and  sucked  the  poison  from  the 
back  of  his  neck.  Di  Carlo  was  carrying  the 
bananas  on  his  shoulder  when  the  little  devil 
stung  him." 

"  Yes,  I  heard  that.  And  all  the  people  laughed 
while  they  cried,  because  when  he  was  sucking 
the  poison  he  said,  '  Let  me  kiss  you  for  your 
mother.'  " 

They  were  silent  again  for  a  time. 

"If  Tramonetti  had  only  kept  his  big  mouth 
shut—" 

"  Yes,  I  wish  he  had  choked  before  he  spoke 
to-night.  He  made  all  the  trouble." 

Another  silence. 

«  Well—" 

«  Well—" 

"  It's  a  bad  world,  this.  One  minute  we  play 
an  organ  at  the  corner  for  any  beggar  to  dance, 
the  next  minute  maybe  we  get  orders  to  file  our 
stilettos  and  put  on  a  black  mask." 

"  Me,  I  am  tired.     I  wish  I  was  out  of  it." 

"  And  me  too.  Tell  the  truth,  I've  never  been 
the  same  since  that  job  you  and  I  did  at  the  old 


68 


Basin.  I  see,  a  thousand  times  a  day,  that  young 
man's  face  the  way  it  looked  in  the  moonlight. 
Sometimes  I  am  playing  my  organ  laughing,  and 
he  comes  and  stands  before  me  with  his  neck  so. 
And,  I  swear  before  God,  I  believe  the  monkey 
sees  him.  Many  times  when  he  is  dancing  he 
looks  up  and  runs  and  crawls  behind  me,  crying, 
and  I  look  around,  and  I  see  the  young  man  with 
his  neck  cut.  I  kiss  the  cross,  but  it's  true. 
Four  times  last  week  Jocko  did  that,  and  I  trem 
bled  so  I  missed  the  time  in  my  music.  You 
don't  believe  it's  true  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  believe  you.  I've  seen  them  again, 
too.  But  now  they  are  too  many.  They  don't 
frighten  me.  I  laugh  in  their  faces,  and  they 
dance  and  run  one  through  another,  like  clouds 
of  smoke.  I  am  an  old  man,  and  I  have  struck 
many  a  blow,  but  not  one  for  hate,  thank  God — 
only  obedience." 

"  Nor  me  either.  Only  twice  I  have  been  on 
duty.  Once  my  partner  did  the  work,  and  the 
other  time — you  know.  And  now,  my  God  !  if 
I  have  to  listen  all  my  life  to  that  Irishman's 
wooden  leg,  *  tap,  tap,  tap?  in  my  ears,  I'll  go 
crazy  ;  I'll  drown  myself." 

The  other  man  laughed. 

"  Oh,  don't  hurt  yourself.  Maybe  old  Socola  '11 
put  somebody  else  on  this  job.  And  the  next 
time  that  young  fellow  we  finished  at  the  Basin 
comes  fooling  around  you,  showing  you  the  cut 
in  his  neck,  you  send  him  to  me.  I  believe  I  gave 


69 


him  his  send-off,  anyway.  'Twas  good  enough 
for  him.  His  tongue  was  too  long." 

"  No,  no  !  They  know  whom  to  follow — and 
I  know.  I  am  left-handed,  and  the  hole  in  his 
neck  was  here;  and  sometimes  my  left  hand 
burns  like  hell.  You  can  laugh,"  he  continued, 
rising,  "  but  it  is  no  fun  to  me.  But  I  am  not  a 
teething  baby.  Easy  or  hard,  I  am  good  for  my 
duty." 

"  Well,"  said  the  other,  "  dimani"  (to-morrow). 

"  Dimani"  was  the  answer. 

And  so  they  parted. 

As  the  younger  man  walked  away,  the  older 
sighed. 

"  Poor  boy  !"  (he  spoke  still  in  Italian),  "  I  was 
like  him  too,  once.  The  first  drop  of  blood  on 
a  man's  hand  burns  like  a  coal  of  fire,  and  a  ghost 
stands  beside  it  always,  blowing  upon  it  to  keep 
it  burning.  The  only  relief  is  more  blood.  When 
once  he  is  bathed  in  blood  he  burns  the  same  all 
over,  and  he  knows  himself  for  af  devil,  and  the 
air  of  hell  feels  good  to  him.  All  around  him 
are  ghosts  blowing  upon  him,  and  he  likes  their 
breath  and  laughs  because  he  is  solid  fire  and 
they  are  like  a  roaring  wind  around  him.  If  they 
would  go  and  leave  him  to  cool  he  would  go  all 
to  gray  ashes  and  fall  to  pieces.  He  would  go 
crazy  and  kill  himself.  Anyhow,  I  am  sorry  for 
this  business." 

He  rose,  and,  as  he  started  home,  curiosity  led 
him  somewhat  out  of  his  way  to  pass  the  Di 


70 


Carlo  shop.  He  walked  on  the  other  side  of  the 
street.  He  looked  over. 

Pat  stood  among  the  children  on  the  banquette, 
throwing  a  little  one  into  the  air  and  catching 
her,  while  the  others  stood  waiting  and  begging : 

"  Take  me,  Mr.  Pat !" 

"  Teresa  had  four  turns." 

"  Little  Pat  always  gets  the  most." 

It  was  a  pretty  picture. 

"Well,  I'm  sorry,"  the  man  repeated  to  himself 
as  he  passed  on.  "  In  the  name  of  God,  why  can't 
men  keep  their  tongues  ?  But,  anyhow,  I  am 
sorry."  x- 

The  picture  of  the  amiable  man  in  the  bosom 
of  the  family  of  his  countryman  playing  with  his 
children,  unconscious  of  impending  evil,  remained 
with  the  Sicilian  as  he  walked  home.  Indeed, 
Pat's  offence  seemed  to  him  more  than  half  a 
virtue  ;  for  was  it  not  provoked  by  his  stanch 
championship  of  the  young  Italian  girl,  Carlotta? 

If  only  Socola  would  be  made  to  see  it  in  this 
light ! 

Before  reporting  the  case,  even,  this  man  of 
the  sinister  face,  who  had  never  before  troubled 
himself  with  a  personal  concern  for  his  victims, 
summoned  his  best  English  and  wrote  a  word  of 
warning  to  the  Irishman. 

It  ran  about  like  this : 

"  ME.  ROONEY  AT  CARLO  Di  CARLO, — This  warn 
you  to  run  for  your  life.  Leaf  New  Orleans  rite 


71 


way.     It  is  not  in  power  off  man  to  safe  you  neith 
er  God  if  you  remane  before  the  eye  of  Mafia. 

"  One  man's  spite  it  is  whitch  marc  you  to  die. 
If  you  remaine  a  nife  go  throught  your  heart.  It 
is  true.  I  swear  before  God." 

When  he  passed  through  the  shop  early  Mon 
day  morning  on  his  way  home,  Pat  found  this 
note  with  another  slipped  in  beneath  the  edge  of 
the  front  door. 

The  other  was  shorter,  but,  as  if  to  add  weight 
and  solemnity  to  its  almost  affectionate  warning, 
across  the  top  of  the  sheet  were  written  the  words 
"Jesus,  Mary,  Joseph." 

Both  notes  were  unsigned.  Pat  read  them  hast 
ily,  and,  chuckling,  as  he  slipped  them  into  his 
pocket,  started  out. 

He  had  proceeded  but  a  few  steps,  however, 
when  he  suddenly  hesitated,  took  off  his  hat, 
scratched  his  head  for  a  moment,  and,  turning, 
went  back  into  the  house. 

Five  minutes'  reflection  had  sufficed  to  decide 
him  as  to  what  he  should  do. 


It  was  two  hours  later  when  Pat  started  out 
again,  and  this  time  he  went  directly  down  to  the 
fruit-shop  of  Pietro  Socola,  where  a  most  unex 
pected  and  festive  scene  greeted  him. 


The  little  old  man,  surrounded  by  a  dozen  or 
more  of  his  countrymen  (and  others  were  coming 
and  going),  was  opening  bottles  of  wine  and  drink 
ing  freely. 

As  Pat  entered,  Socola  bowed  delightedly,  and, 
filling  a  glass,  presented  it  to  him. 

Everybody  was  laughing  and  drinking,  and  the 
host,  although  it  was  yet  scarce  ten  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  showed  the  effect  of  many  glasses  in  his 
flushed  face  and  hilarious  spirits. 

Not  understanding  in  the  least,  but  unable  to 
resist  so  social  a  spirit,  Pat,  at  the  signal,  raised 
the  glass  to  his  lips.  It  was  only  when  some  one 
pronounced  the  name  "  Pietro  Socola  Junio  "  that 
the  situation  flashed  upon  his  comprehension. 

Unto  the  house  of  Socola  a  son  had  been  born. 

The  last  time  Pat  had  met  the  old  man,  a  year 
ago,  on  the  night  of  his  wedding,  he  had  grasped 
his  hand  in  congratulation,  and  he  did  so  again  now. 

"Accept  me  congratulations,  Misther  Socola," 
he  exclaimed;  and,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye,  rais 
ing  his  glass  again,  "Heer's  luck  to  the  junior 
partner  in  the  future  firrm  av  Socola  an'  Son. 
May  he  niver  cross  'is  father  an'  niver  boss  'is 
mother,  an'  be  a  shinin'  example  to  all  'is  yunger 
brothers  an'  sisters !" 

Hearty  laughter  greeted  this  toast,  and  the  old 
man  insisted  on  refilling  the  glasses  all  round, 
saying,  in  Italian,  to  the  men  as  he  did  so,  "He 
has  come  a  great  distance  to  wish  me  joy.  Keep 
his  glass  full." 


Socola  was  not  a  heavy  drinker,  and  his  voice 
was  already  growing  unsteady. 

While  they  stood  here,  the  one-eyed  man  whom 
Pat  had  recognized  in  the  shadow  the  night  be 
fore  joined  the  group.  He  winced  visibly,  Pat 
thought,  on  perceiving  him  in  this  crowd,  and 
while  he  and  Socola  touched  glasses,  Pat  with 
drew,  and,  joining  some  of  the  men  whom  he 
knew,  walked  out  upon  the  levee. 

When  he  returned,  an  hour  later,  he  glanced 
into  Socola's  shop.  The  hitherto  childless  old 
man,  translated  by  his  tardy  honors  into  a  state 
of  gleeful  irresponsibility,  had  by  this  time  got 
ten  right  royally  drunk,  and  now  some  friends 
were  trying  to  induce  him  to  go  home. 

Pat  laughed  to  himself  as  he  saw  him  stagger 
up  to  the  carriage  door.  "Arrah,  musha!"  he 
exclaimed,  "sure  an'  it's  a  holy  thing  to  be  a 
father !  Faith  an'  he  waddles  like  a  puddle- 
dthrake  on  a  hatchin'  day !  I  hope  the  young 
duck '11  be  big  enough  to  crowd  murdher  out  avi 
the  ould  dthrake's  heart,  if  ut's  in  ut." 

The  truth  was,  Pat  had  gone  down  to  Socola  to 
propose  that  they  confess  themselves  mutually 
aggrieved,  and  proceed  to  settle  the  matter  at 
once  by  a  square  hand-to-hand  fist-fight. 

He  had  withheld  the  facts  about  the  wedding 
until  Socola  had  first  lied  about  it.  He  was  will 
ing  to  fight  for  the  truth.  If  Socola  wanted  to 
fight  for  the  lie,  let  him  come  and  "  have  it  out " 
then  and  there  ;  or  if  the  old  man  preferred  to 


have  a  subordinate  member  of  the  Mafia  to  rep 
resent  him  in  the  affair,  let  him  send  any  one  of 
them  to  him. 

It  was  only  as  a  vague  intangibility  that  Pat 
objected  to  deal  with  the  Mafia. 

He  was  sure  that  as  soon  as  Socola  should  see 
that  all  he  demanded  was  a  "  fair  showing  "  they 
could  come  to  a  satisfactory  understanding:  so 
little  did  he  comprehend  the  nature  of  the  man 
with  whom  he  had  to  deal,  or  the  character  of  the 
organization  which  threatened  him. 

As  Pat  surmised,  Socola  had  not  yet  even  heard 
of  his  offence.  The  two  men  who  went  to  make 
their  reports  were,  like  himself,  treated  to  wine, 
and  saw  their  host  carried  home  hors  cle  combat. 

As  Pat  hesitated  at  Socola's  door,  the  one-eyed 
man  was  coming  out,  and  they  met,  face  to  face. 

Pat  touched  his  hat.  The  Sicilian  responded  by 
a  like  salutation,  and  would  have  passed  on,  but 
Pat  detained  him: 

"  Shtop  a  bit,  Misther ;  sure,  I  don't  know 

yer  name,  but  whilst  no  one's  by  I'd  like  to  thank 
ye  for  the  bit  of  a  love-letther  ye  sint  me  last 
night." 

The  man  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Loaf-a-let- 
ther  ?"  he  asked,  with  inimitable  blandness.  "  Me, 
I  no  write-a  northeen." 

"Mebbe  ye  don't  call  it  a  love-letther  itself. 
Now  I  do  think  again,  I  belave  it's  not  a  heart 
wud  a  dart  run  through  ut  for  a  bookay  at  the 
top  o'  the  sheet,  but  a  couple  o'  shin-bones  for- 


75 


ninst  a  graveyard  photograph  wud  a  company 
shmile  on  'im.  But  sure  what's  left  out  av  the 
crest  is  indicated  in  the  text.  Ye've  hinted  purty 
clear  at  the  piercin'  o'  me  palpitator  at  the  end  o' 
the  po'm." 

Fumbling  in  his  pocket,  he  now  brought  out  the 
two  letters. 

"Pity  ye  cudn't  get  ould  Socola  to  set  for  a 
Cupid  aimin'  wud  his  bow  an'  arrer  at  me  hearrt. 
Ye  see,  Irish  litherature  is  different  ag'in  from 
Ttalian.  Sure  an'  if  a  bunch  o'  Paddies  wint  into 
the  tinder  correspondence  like  this,  like  as  not 
they'd  have  me  in  a  picture,  peg  an'  all,  shlapin' 
in  the  heart  av  a  rose,  like  they  do  be  in  Hoyt's 
Gerrman  Cologne  advertizemints,  an'  mebbe  a 
bumble-bee  wud  ould  Socola's  face  on  'im  threat- 
enin'  the  unconscious  shlaper  wud  wan  av  his  reg 
ular  breech-loaders  !  Ye  see,  it  'd  be  a  bit  cheer 
ful,  but  aqually  to  the  point.  Sure  there's  no  life 
nor  joy  in  a  bare  shin  -  bone,  lest  ye'd  have  it 
raised  like  a  fearless  sprig  o'  shillelah." 

By  this  time  he  had  opened  both  letters. 

"Now,"  he  continued,  "  droth  an'  I  don't  know 
which  o'  these  two  shtate  dokimints  ye  sint  me, 
or  whether  ye're  wan  o'  thim  scriptural  chaps  that 
kapes  yer  right  hand  in  ignorance  o'  the  thricks 
o'  the  left,  an'  yer  two  hands  unbeknowinst  to 
wan  anither  have  sint  me  a  frindly  warrnin'; 
but  r'a'ly  and  truly  I'm  very  much  obliged 
to  ye." 

Pat  had  given  him  no  chance  to  reply,  but  now 


76 


he  saw  that  the  Italian's  attitude  was  one  of  pro 
test. 

"Know  northeen  'bouth,"  he  was  saying, 
gently. 

"  Whut!  D'ye  mane  to  say  ye  niver  sint  me 
nayther  wan  o'  dthese  letthers  ?" 

"Know  northeen  'bouth,"  he  repeated,  with  an 
apathy  of  manner  that  was  almost  convincing. 

Pat  scratched  his  head. 

"Mary  Ann's  mother-in-law!"  he  exclaimed, 
and,  after  a  pause : 

"  Thin  who  in  the  name  o'  Donnybrook  Fair 
done  ut  ?  Ye're  the  only  mon  who  cud  write  ut. 
Sure  none  o'  thim  chaps  last  night  knowed  north- 
in'  about  the  throuble  at  Socola's  marriage  till  I 
towld  ut,  an'  faith  ye're  the  only  mon  there  that 
knowed  I  shpoke  the  truth." 

The  old  man  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Me,  I  no  know  'f  ees-a  thrue." 

This  was  too  much. 

"  Don't  know  if  ut's  thrue !  The  divil  ye  don't! 
An'  didn't  ye  come  the  night  o'  the  marriage  an' 
explain  to  me,  worrd  for  worrd,  the  way  Socola 
put  the  Mafia  currse  on  him  that  'd  tell?" 

The  Sicilian  smiled.  "Me,  I  know  northeen 
'bouth-a  Signor  Socola — northeen  'bouth-a  Mafia 
— northeen  'bouth-a  northeen  1" 

"An'  ye  weren't  at  the  Di  Carlos'  this  night 
twelvemonth  past  ?" 

"  Scuza  me,  my  f rien',  'f  you  please.  'M  in-a 
gread-a  hoary.  Me,  'm-a  allawa  fo'  business." 


77 


He  hesitated  here,  and,  looking  round  cautious 
ly,  lowered  his  voice  as  he  took  Pat's  hand. 

"  Tell-a  you  thrue,"  he  said,  with  a  nearer  ap 
proach  to  animation  than  he  had  yet  shown — 
"  tell-a  you  thrue,  'f  I  was-a  ged  a  ledther  ligue 
thad,  me,  I  would-a  theng  God  I  haf  time  run  quig 
hide-a  myselve.  Well — goo'-by  !  Hofe-ayou  good 
lug."  And  he  turned  away. 

A  sudden  light  came  into  the  Irishman's  face. 

"  Howld  on  a  bit!"  he  exclaimed.  "  Howld — on 
— a — bit !  I've  a  purrty  thick  shkull  on  me,  but 
I  do  begin  to  see  the  dthrift  'f  yer  iloquence. 
Plaze  to  presint  me  complimints  to  the  gintleman 
that  sint  me  the  letthers,  if  ye  do  chance  to  run 
aground  av  'im  on  the  boulevards,  an'  tell  'im  I'll 
not  run,  nor  hide  nay t her  /" 

Gathering  emphasis  here  by  a  moment's  si 
lence,  he  leaned  forward  and  looked  the  Sicilian 
squarely  in  the  eye. 

"  There's  a  bit  av  a  song  we  do  sing  in  the  ould 
counthry.  Perchance  ye've  niver  heerd  ut,  but 
I'm  that  interested  in  the  cultivation  av  yer  mind 
I'll  tell  ut  out  to  ye  partly : 

"  '  S'iut  Patthrick  was  a  gintleman, 

And  kem  av  dacent  people ; 
He  built  a  church  in  Dublin  town 

An'  on  ut  put  a  shteeple. 
His  father  was  a  Gallagher, 

His  mother  was  a  Brady, 
His  aunt  was  an  O'Shaughnesay, 

His  uncle  was  O'Grady. 


78 


So  success  attind  S'int  Patthrick's  fat, 

For  lie  was  a  saint  so  clever — 
Oh,  he  gave  the  slmakes  and  toads  a  twist 

That  bothered  thim  forever.' 

"  Ye  see,  that's  a  beautiful  po'm,  Misther — Mis- 
tber  Know-northin',  wild  solud  Irish  sintimints, 
an'  the  whole  moral  law  jellied  down  into  shtand- 
in'-shape  in  the  chorus." 

He  moved  backwards  a  step  here,  and  touched 
his  own  breast  as  he  continued: 

"The  'umble  perrson  ye  do  see  before  ye  is  a 
fractional  descindant  along  'th  bein'  a  namesake 
o'  the  gintleman,  S'int  Patthrick  himself,  an',  up 
to  the  prisent  moment,  sure  success  has  always  at- 
tinded  his  fist !  We're  av  a  pedigree  that  has  no 
use  for  toads  norr  shnakes,  norr  onything  toadyin' 
norr  shnakin' — beyant  givin'  thim  a  twist  that'll 
bother  thim  forever.  Sure  I  kem  down  this 
morrnin  with  the  'onerable  intintion  o'  latherin' 
the  bit  av  a  varmint,  Socola,  wud  me  fist,  but  the 
wave  o'  prosperity — or  posterity,  whichiver  ye 
like — lifted  him  beyant  me  entirely.  But  I'll  be 
down  again,  plaze  God,  in  a  couple  o'  days,  wud 
S'int  Patthrick 's  weapon  /" 

He  held  up  his  clinched  fist.  "  And  now,"  he 
added,  extending  his  hand,  "  I  do  wish  ye  good- 
day!" 

The  Sicilian  stood  and  looked  after  him  a  mo 
ment  in  bewilderment,  and  then  he  said  some 
thing,  presumably  in  Anglo  -  Italian  ;  at  least,  it 
sounded  like  "Damfool,"  a  word  not  found  in 


79 


English  print — even  in  the  new  Century  Diction 
ary. 

By  a  strange  coincidence,  Pat  s^id  the  same 
word  as  he  turned  the  corner.  He  had  picked  up 
a  good  deal  of  the  colloquial  patois  of  these  peo 
ple. 

When  Socola  returned  to  his  shop  on  the  next 
day,  a  little  withered  grotesque  impersonation  of 
bilious  pomposity,  his  inner  consciousness  never 
theless  corresponded  to  his  own  best  ideal  of  a 
noble,  dignified,  and  tender  father. 

Indeed,  he  felt  father  to  all  the  world,  except 
ing,  of  course,  the  dear  woman  to  whom  he  was 
husband  ;  and  this  exception  was  as  distinct  and 
as  tender  and  sensitive  as  only  this  particularly 
potent  occasion  could  make  it. 

He  had  hitherto  known  nothing  so  exquisitely 
refined  as  the  almost  reverential  tenderness  with 
which  his  intensely  masculine  heart  went  out  to 
the  sallow  little  mother  and  the  tiny  yellow  man- 
child  who  lay  upon  her  breast  to-day.  The  com 
bination  was  something  to  live  for,  to  fight  for,  to 
die  for — almost. 

And  Pat's  offence  was  against  this  embodiment 
of  sacredness — this  woman — this  infant. 

The  accidental  wife — the  incidental  babe  !  How 
the  thought  would  cheapen  the  sacred  possessions 
in  the  vulgar  mind  !  To  Socola  himself,  when  it 
all  dimly  recurred  to  him,  it  seemed  almost  a  dream 
which  he  no  longer  more  than  half  believed.  If 
he  were  choosing  again,  he  could  choose  no  other 


80 


woman  of  all  the  world  ;  and  surely  be  would  have 
no  other  babe  than  this ! 

When  the.two  men,  the  one  with  the  blind  eye 
and  the  other,  came  together  in  the  shop  on  this 
second  day  and  gave  to  Socola,  separately,  as  op 
portunity  offered,  the  sign  of  the  Mafia,  it  was  a 
signal  to  withdraw  hastily  with  them  into  his  pri 
vate  office. 

A  subordinate  gives  the  summons  to  his  chief 
only  when  a  communication  of  importance  is  pend 
ing. 

When  he  returned  to  the  shop,  an  hour  later,  the 
old  man  was  still  blue  about  the  lips,  and  his  hands 
trembled  as  he  swore  promiscuous  oaths  indis 
criminately  at  the  employes  of  the  shop  for  im 
aginary  offences. 

The  two  men  had  gone  silently  together  out  of 
the  side  door  with  their  heads  down. 

Although  Pat  was  restless  in  view  of  an  im 
pending  row  and  eager  to  have  it  over,  gaug 
ing  the  probable  duration  of  an  Italian's  spree 
by  the  Hibernian  standard,  he  did  not  think  it 
worth  while  to  return  to  the  city  for  several 
days. 

The  gentleman  from  Palermo  had  in  the  mean 
time  had  much  time  for  sober  reflection.  He  had, 
of  course,  heard  of  Pat's  projected  visit,  and  was 
ready  for  him — with  an  extended  hand. 

Indeed,  no  crafty  diplomat  ever  confounded  an 
adversary  with  a  more  gracious  and  smiling  suav 
ity  than  that  with  which  he  greeted  and  disarmed 


81 


his  ingenuous  guest  when,  on  the  Thursday  fol 
lowing,  Pat  re-entered  his  shop. 

Socola's  English  vocabulary,  at  best  a  matter  of 
a  few  hundred  words,  seemed  to-day  to  have 
shrunken  until  it  was  less  only  than  his  compre 
hension. 

He  failed  utterly  to  understand  that  there  could 
be  anything  disagreeable  in  his  visitor's  mission. 

The  interview,  a  ludicrous  pantomimic  affair 
throughout,  ended  by  a  mutual  hand-shaking  con 
fession  of  friendly  feeling,  and  Pat  went  away  en 
tirely  satisfied  that  either  a  mistake  had  been 
made,  the  Sicilian  had  forgotten  his  oath,  or  the 
coming  of  the  babe  had  indeed  crowded  murder 
out  of  the  father's  heart. 

He  had  personally  no  longer  a  quarrel  with  the 
old  man.  He  had  refuted  the  lie,  and  was  simply 
willing  to  stand  by  the  refutation. 

If  he  had  glanced  backwards  as  he  left  the  shop 
and  seen  the  menacing  scowl  that  followed  his  re 
ceding  figure,  he  would  perhaps  have  understood. 

From  Socola's  presence  he  went  up  "  home,"  to 
the  Di  Carlos'.  Here,  to  his  dismay,  two  more 
notes  of  solemn  warning  awaited  him. 

Both  were  unsealed.  Indeed,  they  were  written 
on  unfolded  scraps  of  paper,  and  were  found 
slipped  in  beneath  the  door,  just  as  the  first  had 
been. 

When  the  signora  had  called  Pat  into  an  inner 
room,  she  closed  the  door  and  turned  gray  with 
pallor  as  she  handed  them  to  him. 

6 


Her  fear  of  the  law,  of  death,  of  purgatory,  of 
hell,  was  vague  and  as  nothing  to  her  terror  of 
the  vengeance  of  the  Mafia.  None  of  her  family 
were  members  of  the  dread  organization,  but  she 
remembered  only  too  vividly  how  the  husband  of 
her  first-cousin  had  years  ago  received  just  such 
a  warning  as  this,  and  one  day  he  had  gone  as 
usual  to  his  work  and  had  never  come  home 
again. 

Ever  since  she  had  had  the  letters  in  her  pos 
session  she  had  felt  as  if  the  angel  of  death  were 
hovering  over  the  house. 

As  she  stood  at  Pat's  side  and  saw  him  read  the 
words  of  warning  she  began  to  cry. 

"Fo'  God  sague,  Meester  Pad,  wad  you  ees-a 
been  do  ?"  she  moaned. 

Pat  laughed. 

"Well,  ma'am,"  said  he,  "at  the  present  mo 
ment  I'm  jist  afther  a  second  visit  to  yer  yung 
frind,  Socola.  We're  that  thick  ye'd  think  we 
were  twins — or  thriplets  mebbe,  an'  I  was  two  an' 
he  only  wan  —  the  way  he  does  bow  an'  schrape 
right  an'  left  to  me." 

"Socola!" 

If  Pat  had  said  he  had  just  returned  from  a 
visit  to  his  Satanic  majesty,  she  would  not  have 
been  much  more  startled.  "  Socola  !  You  ees-a 
been  see  Socola !  Fo'  God  sague,  how  you  ees-a 
fin'  'im?" 

"  Find  'im  !  Faith  an'  he's  as  well  as  cud  be  ex 
pected  afther  havin'  a  fine  b'y  a-Sunda'  night.  Ye 


83 


see,  it  does  be  very  dangerous  whin  a  firrst  b'y  is 
borrn  to  an  ould  man.  It  does  fly  to  his  head  an' 
set  'im  ravin'  crazy.  I  b'lave  the  docthers  do  call 
it  puerile  faver.  Did  ye  niver  heer  av  ut  ?" 

The  woman  was  too  much  concerned  even  to 
realize  that  he  was  jesting. 

"  Wad  'e  sayce  to  you  ?"  she  asked,  eagerly. 

"Sure  an'  he  sez  he  wants  to  name  the  yung- 
sther  af  ther  me  ;  but  I'm  that  proud  I  won't  allow 
ut.  Ye  see,  the  shtyle  av  beauty  in  the  Rooney 
family  has  been  preserrved  through  thick  an'  thin 
wud  great  pains,  an'  I'd  niver  consint  to  take  a 
risk  on  Socola's  f 'atures,  wud  no  promise  av  relafe 
from  her  loyal  accidency  the  madam.  Ye  see,  a 
proud  man  must  protect  his  name  as  well  as  his 
fame." 

This  bantering,  really  only  a  ruse  to  gain  time 
to  reflect  a  little  on  the  situation,  was  becoming 
very  trying  to  the  signora.  Pat  became  suddenly 
conscious  that  there  were  genuine  tears  in  her 
eyes. 

"  Niver  mind,  now,  niver  mind,"  he  said,  with 
real  feeling.  "  Don't  fret  yersilf  because  a  couple 
o'  cranks  do  sind  me  a  valentine.  Faith,  there's 
northin'  in  ut,  but  mebbe  a  thrick  o'  the  shoe 
thrade  to  dthrive  me  out  o'  the  competition." 

He  then  briefly  reviewed  his  two  visits  to  the 
old  Sicilian,  omitting  the  occasion  of  his  going, 
and  laying  special  stress  on  all  the  pleasant  feat 
ures  of  their  meetings. 

But  she  was  not  to  be  so  easily  appeased.     She 


84 


lowered  her  voice  almost  to  a  whisper  when  she 
spoke  again  : 

"  Tell-a  you  thrue,  Meester  Pad,  me  an'  Carlo 
ees-a  been  hear  sornetheen." 

"Heerd  something,  did  ye?    An'  whut  was  ut?" 

"  Plenny  young  mans  ees-a  tell  me  an'  Carlo 
you  ees-a  say  sometheen  'boud-a  C'lottaan'  Signer 
Socola.  All-a  peoples  ees-a  talkin'  'boud." 

"  They  are,  are  they  ?  An'  whut  if  I  did  ?  An' 
whut  did  ye  say  ?" 

"Me  ?  Of-a  coze  I  sayce  ees-a  no  true  :  Socola 
ees-a  neva  was-a  lova-a  C'lotta." 

"  Ye  did,  did  ye  ?    An'  whut  did  'er  father  say?" 

"Carlo  sayce  you  ees-a  just  a  mague-a  lill  fun  ; 
'2  no  true." 

Pat  scratched  his  head.  "  An'  betune  the  two 
av  yez  ye've  made  me  out  a  bloomin'  liur,  now — 
haven't  yez?" 

"'F  I  mague  you  oud  a  lie,  I  mague  you  just-a 
pardner  fo'  myselve.  Fo'  God  sague,  lis'n  ad  me, 
Meester  Pad.  'Z  no  time  fo'  talk  'boud  lie.  'Z-a 
time  fo' business.  You  muz-a  go  just-a  so  quig  as 
you  can-a  go  an'  tell  all-a  doze  young  mans  you 
was-a  just-a  playV." 

Even  the  strong  friendship  evinced  by  her  in 
tense  anxiety  failed  to  palliate  the  affront  of  her 
proposition  in  Pat's  eyes.  He  looked  at  her,  bit 
his  lip,  and,  without  a  word,  turned  on  his  heel 
and  left  her* 

As  he  passed  out  the  door  the  sound  of  a  sob 
reached  his  ear.  He  was  back  in  a  moment. 


85 


x'  Fo'  the  love  o'  shad,  ma'am,  don't — don't  fret. 
Niver  mind,  now,  I  tell  ye.  If  ye  cry  anither  dthrop 
I'll  howl  out  a  high  tenor  mesilf  to  match  ye.  Sure 
it  '11  be  all  right  now,  I'll  promise  ye.  I'll  shtep 
out  by-an'-by  till  I  do  find  the  crowd,  an'  I'll  make 
a  bit  av  a  spache  that  '11  silence  thim,  an'  they'll 
niver  lay  a  hand  on  me.  I'll  promise  ye  that. 
Come  on  out,  now." 

"  Tell  'm  ees-a  no  true,  Meester  Pad.  Say  you 
was  just-a  mague  fun.  An'  anyhow,  I  b'lief  ees-a 
bedder  you  go  'way." 

She  sobbed  again. 

"  Well,  I  declare,  ma'am,  I'm  that  ashamed  av 
ye!  Ye.' re  frettin'  yersilf  about  northin'  —  an' 
Socola  an'  me  like  two  peas,  a,  green  wan  an'  a 
dthry  wan,  in  wan  pod.  Come  on  out,  now.  Sure 
the  crowd  around  the  shteps  are  all  half  ashlape, 
an'  they'll  have  no  fun  till  ye  do  come  an'  wake 
thim  up  wud  a  good  laugh.  Come,  now.  The 
royal  consorrt  an'  all  yer  majesty's  loyal  subjects 
'11  not  dare  open  parliamint  till  the  queen  does 
arrive." 

With  a  comical  bobbing  courtesy  he  made  way 
for  her  to  pass  out.  Sniffling  and  wiping  her  eyes, 
she  escaped  to  her  own  room  for  a  moment,  but  it 
was  not  long  before  she  joined  the  circle  on  the 
banquette. 

It  was  a  sultry  summer  afternoon,  and  the  scene 
about  the  doors  was  drowsy  enough  indeed.  The 
little  father  Di  Carlo  nodded  on  his  barrel.  The 
baby,  a  mosquito-netting  stretched  over  her  face, 


lay  sleeping  in  her  willow  cradle  at  his  side.  Sev 
eral  men  lounged  on  the  benches,  talking  lazily  in 
Italian,  and  fighting  the  flies  with  their  red  cotton 
kerchiefs. 

Within  the  shop  the  boy  Pasquale  stood  lan 
guidly  opening  oysters  for  a  black  girl,  who,  lean 
ing  with  half  her  tall  length  spread  over  the 
counter,  indolently  chewed  a  cud  of  gum  as  she 
waited  with  bovine  patience  while  her  bucket  was 
slowly  filling.  » 

Half-way  down  the  block  a  chattering  group  of 
neighborhood  children,  among  whom  was  a  gen 
erous  sprinkling  of  Di  Carlos,  were  playing  in  the 
doubtful  shade  of  a  tallow -tree.  Some  sat  with 
their  laps  piled  high  with  china  blossoms,  which 
they  strung  on  threads  into  fragrant  purple  neck 
laces.  A  pair  of  girls  played  "jack-stones"  on 
the  fronts  of  their  dress  -  skirts  lapped  one  over 
the  other  on  the  ground,  while  others,  arm  in  arm, 
promenaded  up  and  down,  shading  themselves, 
after  the  fashion  of  Paul  and  Virginia,  with  tall 
green  banana  leaves,  purloined  from  over  a  neigh 
boring  fence. 

Somewhat  apart  from  the  other  children,  and 
nearer  the  shop,  two  taller  girls  sat  crocheting 
cotton  lace,  while  their  toddling  charges  slept  at 
their  sides. 

Pat,  whose  seat  commanded  a  view  of  them,  was 
not  long  in  discovering  that  the  smaller  of  these 
two  was  Carlotta,  and,  while  he  passed  idly  from 
one  subject  to  another,  challenging  conversation  at 


87 


random  with  his  drowsy  company,  he  delighted  to 
watch  her  as  the  oblique  rays  of  the  sun  revealed 
her  each  moment  more  clearly  to  him. 

"Five  times  thim  two  childer  have  dropped 
their  nadles  to  measure  their  lace,  or  fringe,  or 
whativer  ye  call  it,"  he  said,  presently,  laughing. 
"Sure  I'm  gom'  to  watch  thim  now,  an'  the  sev- 

O  * 

enth  time  they  do  measure  ut  I'll  up  an'  be  off. 
I've  a  call  to  make  a  spache  to  some  o'  me  con 
stituents,  an'  I  must  hunt  thim  up.  I  do  fale  as 
lazy  as  the  fly  on  the  banana  here  at  me  elbow. 
See  him  walk  like  a  bug  from  wan  black  ind  to 
take  a  sup  at  the  ither,  too  lazy  to  raise  his  wings 
an'  fly.  There  they  go  again,  the  childer,  God 
bless  thim  !  measurin'  again  !  Six  times  in  forrty 
minutes.  Sure  they've  harrdly  time  to  put  a  tuck 
in  ut  betune  the  two  measures." 

The  signora  laughed  heartily.  "Lis'n  ad -a 
Meester  Pad!  Pood  a  tug  in -a  lace!  I  swea' 
you  would-a  mague  a  dead  dog  laugh." 

Her  laughter  did  Pat  good.  "  Sure  a  tuck  or  a 
him  are  all  wan  to  a  tailor  in  leather,"  he  replied, 
unconsciously  coming  into  the  domain  of  Carlyle's 
thought. 

"  But  tell  me,  ma'am,"  he  continued,  "  how  do 
ye  ladies  him  fringes,  ony way  ?  I  cudn't  forr  the 
life  av  me  him  a  fringe,  nor  scallop  it  nayther." 

She  screamed  with  laughter  now.  "  My  God  ! 
Hem  a  fringe  !  Nobody  can-a  hem  a  fringe." 

"  Is  that  so  ?  An'  d'  ye  fringe  the  hims  ?  I'm 
not  jokin'.  Faith  I  niver  so  much  as  fringed  a 


scallop  in  me  life,  let  alone  a  him.  Tell  me,  now, 
d'  yez  dthraw  threads,  orr  dthrop  stitches,  or  puck 
er  it  on  the  bias  ?  Och,  there  now  !  I  must  go ! 
the  two  girrls  beyant  are  measurin'  their  scallops 
again.  Well,  so  long,  ma'am !  I'll  be  back  in  the 
autumn,  plaze  God,  '  whin  the  1'aves  begin  to 
fall.'" 

She  was  laughing  so  that  she  could  not  speak 
when  Pat  rose  to  go. 

"Since  ye  do  insist  upon  ut,"  he  added,  as  he 
turned  away,  "I  b'lave  I'll  change  me  summer 
plans  an'  come  back  be  supper-time.  Put  an  ex- 
thra  sup  av  coffee  in  the  dthripper,  plaze,  an' 
dthrop  the  name  av  Rooney  promiscuously  in  the 
pots." 

"All -a  righd!  Muz-a  be  shore,  shore  come  to 
supper.  Prormus  you  sometheen  good." 

This  was  a  thing  Pat  rarely  did;  and  she  was 
delighted.  Even  had  she  not  known  that  he 
would  come  in  laden  with  paper  bags  full  of  good 
things  to  add  to  the  supper-table,  she  would  have 
been  just  as  glad  to  set  his  plate  in  between  little 
Pat's  and  Carlotta's. 

Pat  had  no  trouble  in  finding  the  "  constitu 
ents  "  whom  he  wanted  to  meet.  He  knew  that 
at  this  hour  certain  Italians  would  be  sure  to  con 
gregate  at  their  favorite  rendezvous,  a  coffee 
house. near  the  levee.  He  was  glad  to  find  Tra- 
monetti,  and  others  who  were  present  on  the  form 
er  occasion,  already  there. 

It  took  but  a  few  moments  to  repeat  his  former 


89 


account  of  the  Socola  wedding,  which  he  colored 
with  new  drolleries  in  the  narration,  and  to  add — 
and  this  was  the  object  of  his  visit  —  the  item 
carelessly  omitted  before  —  viz.,  Socola's  threat 
that  the  Mafia  would  avenge  a  betrayal  of  the 
affair. 

This,  he  carefully  explained,  was  the  reason  his 
good  friends  the  Di  Carlos  had  felt  constrained 
to  deny  it.  They  were  afraid  of  the  Mafia.  They 
couldn't  understand  how  he  and  Socola  under 
stood  each  other  perfectly  now,  and,  after  all,  it 
was  a  small  matter  whether  Socola  had  been  jilted 
or  not:  who  cared  ?  It  was  a  thing  of  the  past. 
For  himself,  he  only  mentioned  it  again  to  prove 
that  he  hadn't  lied  before.  The  whole  business 
was,  he  finally  declared,  "a  timpest  in  a  tay-pot," 
and  the  sooner  forgotten  the  better.  He  ended 
by  begging  them  not  to  "worry  the  madam" 
by  saying  anything  more  about  it  at  the  Di 
Carlos'. 

"  Sure  the  madam's  been  wapin'  an'  vvailin'  for 
feer  I'll  be  kilt  entirely.  She  thinks  I'm  out  this 
minute  tellin'  ye  all  I  was  jokin'  an'  thryin'  to 
back  out  av  the  whole  shtatemint.  Sure  I'd  back 
out  in  a  minute  if  I  knowed  a  back-shtep  ;  but 
when  I  tuck  dancin'- lessons  in  Paris  whin  I  was 
a  yungshter,  I  niver  learrned  the  craw-fish  move 
ment,  an'  faith  it's  too  late  in  life  now  to  dthrag 
me  wooden  peg  into  a  new  figure.  There's  but 
three-quarrters  av  me  left,  onyhow,  but  it's  three- 
quarrters  av  a  man's  shape,  praise  God,  an'  I'll 


90 


not  disgrace  the  fraction,  for  the  likeness  it  does 
bear  me  mother,  God  rest  her." 

The  crowd  were  rather  still  and  subdued  for 
some  time  after  Pat  left  them. 

"  I'm  sorry  I  ever  opened  my  lips  about  Socola's 
business,"  said  one,  finally,  in  Italian;  "but,  any 
how,  I  told  where  I  heard  it." 

"  I  never  said  anything  to  anybody,"  said  an 
other,  "and  I'm  glad.  I  don't  want  any  of  his 
flock  of  vampires  following  me  in  the  dark." 

"  But  I'd  hate  to  be  in  that  Irishman's  shoes !" 

"  In  his  one  shoe,  you  mean.  And  me  too.  So 
would  I." 


VI 

For  several  months  after  this  things  seemed  to 
drift  along  as  usual. 

Pat's  prosperity,  already  assured  though  plod 
ding,  had  been  unexpectedly  accelerated  by  the 
sudden  death  of  his  partner,  whose  widow  had 
preferred  a  settlement  in  cash  to  the  possible  risk 
of  an  investment  subject  to  the  vicissitudes  of 
trade.  This  left  Pat  in  sole  possession  of  a  prom 
ising  little  business,  and  he  was  doing  well. 

He  still  went  "  home  "  nearly  every  Sunday ; 
and,  as  Carlotta  had  of  late  been  especially  kind 
to  him,  he  began  to  feel  that  the  materialization  of 
his  hopes  was  not  far  distant. 

The  youth  Rubino  still  hung  about  the  shop 


91 


with  his  accordion,  and  once  Pat  had  found  him 
and  Carlotta  out  walking  together  when  he  came 
on  Sunday  afternoon.  He  said  to  himself  that  it 
was  all  right  for  her  to  be  happy  in  her  own 
youthful  way,  and  he  tried  to  feel  glad.  Indeed, 
if  he  were  not  wholly  so  at  the  time,  her  hearty 
greeting  when  she  came  home  in  a  little  while 
made  him  forget  it  all. 

So  the  winter  passed — a  second  since  the  Socola 
affair.  In  a  month  Carlotta  would  pass  her  eigh 
teenth  birthday.  Things  were  coming  very  close. 

Pat  feared  no  opposition  from  the  Di  Carlo 
parents.  Indeed,  the  signora,  in  her  relation  of 
unconscious  mother-in-law  elect,  was  a  joy  to  his 
Irish  heart.  She  had  evidently  no  suspicion  of 
the  truth,  and,  in  face  of  Pat's  blossoming  out 
into  a  successful  gentleman,  had  been  unable  to 
refrain  from  throwing  out  occasional  hints  recall 
ing  his  early  fancy  for  Carlotta.  And  Pat,  the 
while  laughing  in  his  sleeve,  kept  her  in  continual 
suspense  by  hinting  at  other  possible  alliances, 
as  when  he  said : 

"  Sure  an'  I  wush  ye  cud  see  the  widder 
Schmidt,  how  purrty  an'  yung  she  is  since  the 
ould  man's  gone.  Troth  an'  ye  may  heer  any  day 
av  an  elopemint  in  high  life.  Sure  I  tould  'er  we 
betther  wait  till  the  Berrmuda  is  firrmly  rooted 
on  the  ould  gintleman's  grave  —  God  rist  'im!  — 
an'  —  wud  ye  bel'ave? — she  does  northin'  but 
shprinkle  it  wud  a  watherin'-pot  since." 

"  Oh-h-h,  'z-a  shame  fo'  you,  Meester  Pad,  talk 


92 


like  tliad!  Can  get  plenny  pritty  young-a  woma' 
yed." 

"I've  not  fully  made  up  me  mind  yet,  ma'am, 
sure,  till  I  do  see  wull  she  turrn  back  all  the  cap 
ital  she  dthrew  out  av  the  thrade  an'  promise  me 
a  day  off  once  a  wake  from  cinnamon-cake  till  I 
do  fale  me  pulse  an'  starrt  fresh." 

It  was  no  wonder  the  signora  missed  Pat  out  of 
her  daily  life.  He  made  so  much  fun.  Was  it 
strange  she  wanted  to  secure  him  ? 

It  was  at  last  Carlotta's  birthday.  Pat  had 
come  to  town  rather  earlier  than  usual,  intend 
ing  to  take  her  —  alone  for  the  first  time  —  out 
for  a  ride.  They  would  go  up  to  the  Carrollton 
Garden  and  sit  on  one  of  the  little  benches  to 
gether  under  a  tree  ;  and  when  they  came  home 
they  would  tell  "  the  madam  "  and  ask  her  bless 
ing. 

He  knew  just  the  funny  things  he  would  say  as 
he  would  present  the  little  bald  spot  on  his  head 
for  her  maternal  blessing.  And  then  they  would 
have  to  tell  —  or  rather  to  ask  —  the  father.  He 
scratched  his  head  a  little  nervously  at  this  thought, 
and  wished  the  ordeal  were  over;  yet  he  would 
get  through  somehow,  and  "carry  it  off"  with 
whatever  inspiration  the  moment  should  bring. 

He  was  dressed  in  his  very  best,  and  would  have 
given  much  to  wear  his  artificial  leg  for  the  occa 
sion.  He  would  have  liked  to  appear  as  a  whole 
man  walking  at  her  side  to-night. 

It  was  just  merging  into  twilight  when  he  ap- 


93 


preached  the  shop,  and  the  family  sat,  as  usual, 
about  the  doors. 

"  An'  where's  Lottie  ?"  he  asked,  as  he  joined 
the  circle. 

He  had  never  called  for  her  in  this  way  before, 
but  he  was  too  near  the  edge  of  things  to-night 
to  care  to  think. 

"  C'lotta  ees-a  just  now  gone  oud-a  walk  weeth 
Giuseppe  Rubino.  Sid  down,  Meester  Pad."  And 
the  signora  lifted  her  foot  from  the  rung  of  a 
stool  and  pushed  it  towards  him. 

He  sat  down,  but  he  was  uneasy. 

After  a  little  while,  during  which,  the  signora 
afterwai'ds  said,  he  had  never  been  more  lively  or 
witty,  he  rose  and  left  them. 

For  the  last  three  Saturday  evenings  Carlotta 
had  been  out  with  Giuseppe  when  he  came,  but  he 
had  tried  not  to  think  seriously  of  it.  But  to 
night !  Had  she  not  remembered?  Did  she  not 
realize  that  to-day  meant  much  to  him — and  to 
her  ?  He  would  pass  the  hour  until  he  should  be 
sure  to  find  her  at  home  in  his  favorite  retreat  on 
the  river-bank,  alone.  There  would  be  no  demand 
upon  him  here,  and  he  could  get  himself  together 
again ;  for  he  was  keenly  hurt. 

As  he  left  the  Di  Carlos',  he  could  not  see  that 
two  men  —  Sicilians  they  were  —  who  stood  to 
gether  in  the  shadow  of  the  wall  across  the  way 
moved  slowly  after  him  until  he  stopped  the  car, 
when,  quickening  their  paces,  they  also  jumped 
aboard,  one  seating  himself  within,  while  the 


94 


other  passed  out  to  the  platform  with  the  driver. 
Neither  could  he  know  when  he  crossed  the  wharf 
that  these  two  men  watched  and  by  separate  routes 
followed  him  at  a  distance  as  he  disappeared 
among  the  shadows  between  the,  piles  of  freight 
along  the  pier. 

The  river  was  high,  and  when  he  reached  his 
accustomed  seat  the  floating  wharf  which  was 
chained  to  the  heavy  timbers  attracted  him.  He 
had  never  been  down  here,  but  a  pair  of  hanging 
steps  invited  the  folly  of  his  descent  to-night,  and 
he  had  soon  hobbled  down  and  seated  himself  on 
the  inner  edge  of  the  raft,  and  thus  within  the 
shadow  of  the  pier  above.  It  pleased  his  mood  to 
get  thus  near  the  turbulent,  restless  waters  for  a 
while. 

To  sit  in  a  little  black  shadow  while  he  waited 
for  Carlotta  to  come  home  with  Giuseppe  suited 
him  to-night ;  while  the  booming,  swelling,  resist 
less  river  that  lifted  him  upon  its  bosom  and 
seemed  threatening  to  submerge  everything  was 
typical  of  his  love. 

His  thoughts  had  hardly  begun  to  cool  and 
shape  themselves  when,  first  vaguely,  as  at  a  dis 
tance,  and  now  nearer,  clearer,  came  the  sound  of 
an  accordion. 

On  summer  evenings,  almost  anywhere  along 
the  river-bank  one  may  expect  to  find  a  sprink 
ling  of  accordion-players — usually  German  kitch 
en-courtships  out  for  an  airing — and  there  should 
have  been  nothing  very  startling  in  the  sound  ; 


95 


yet  its  first  note  made  the  Irishman's  heart  stand 
still.  He  knew  the  most  distant  reach  of  Giu 
seppe's  accordion.  It  had  come  out  to  meet  him 
too  often  in  the  evenings  for  him  to  mistake  it  now. 
It  was  coming  very  near,  and  soon  he  began  to 
hear  voices — Carlotta's  and  the  youth's.  They 
were  sitting  down  on  the  wharf  just  above  his 
head.  Broken  snatches  of  tunes  proved  that 
Giuseppe  was  toying  thoughtlessly  with  his  in 
strument,  and  while  he  played  he  was  earnestly 
talking.  Soon  the  music  stopped  altogether,  the 
voice  fell  lower,  more  serious,  more  indistinct.  It 
seemed  to  Pat  that  the  boy  talked  for  an  age;  but 
he  could  distinguish  nothing. 

But  presently  Carlotta  spoke,  clearly : 

"  No,  no,  Giuseppe.  Hush  !  I  can't  lis'n  at 
you  !" 

Then  again  Giuseppe  muttered  in  a  tone  indis 
tinct  as  to  words,  but  full  of  pleading. 

And  now  Carlotta  again  : 

"Hush,  I  say,  Giuseppe !  I  mus'tit  lis'n  at  you! 
I  wish  I  was  dead  !  I  hate  you  ! — I  hate  myself ! 
— I  hate  your  music! — I  hate  everything!  Before 
you  came,  I  was  satisfied.  Everything  was  prom 
ise  good,,  an'  I  never  knowed  no  better.  Now, 
when  I  put  my  finger  in  my  ears,  I  hear  you  sing 
— I  hear  that  music.  Oh,  I  hate  it  all !  To-night 
I  ought  to  be  home,  and  I  am  here  with  you — al 
ways  with  you." 

He  spoke  more  clearly  now  in  Italian  :  "  But 
why  do  you  speak  so,  Carlotta?  It  is  not  true 


96 


that  you  hate  me.  You  love  me — I  know  it,  I 
feel  it.  Since  first  I  saw  you,  I  knew  we  were  for 
each  other." 

"But  no,  Giuseppe.  Hush,  I  say  !  I  can't  be 
for  you.  Since  two  years  I  am  promised.  My 
word  is  passed." 

"And  who  is  it  that  holds  a  child  by  her  word 
when  she  loves  him  not?" 

"  Oh,  hush,  Giuseppe  !  He  don't  hold  me.  I 
hold  myself.  He  is  the  best  man  in  all  the  world. 
He  loves  me  more  than  even  my  maw.  Since  I 
was  so  big  he  loved  me  and  I  loved  him  good ; 
but  since  you  came  I  am  not  the  same.  I  am  not 
fit.  I  run  away  with  you,  and  then  when  I  see 
him  I  am  sorry,  and  speak  kind  with  him,  but  all 
the  time  I  see  you.  He  trusts  me,  Giuseppe,  same 
like  I  trust  the  blessed  Mother — he  even  put  my 
name  by  her  name  once — and  you  have  all  broken 
me  hearted,  Giuseppe,  an'  made  me  turn  away 
from  him.  I  wish  I  was  dead ! — and  you  ! — and 
him !" 

There  were  tears  in  her  voice. 

"But  listen,  Carlotta.  You  don't  understand. 
Nothing  is  true  but  love.  Everything  else  comes 
after — promises,  mistakes,  all — everything  !  Love 
is  from  God  Almighty.  He  never  sends  love  like 
mine  but  he  sends  the  answer  too.  For  two 
months  I  have  read  my  answer  in  your  eyes,  and 
was  satisfied  ;  but  it  was  sweet  to  wait,  to  sing,  to 
play,  to  laugh  all  around  it,  making  believe  I  was 
not  sure.  But  I  am  sure.  You  are  mine!" 


97 


"  Oh,  but  no,  no,  no,  Guiseppe !  I  am  not  for 
yon.  If  I  was  that  mean,  God  would  never  bless 
me  nor  you.  It  would  be  a  curse.  You  cannot 
understand." 

"  Who  is  this  coward  who  holds  you  ?" 

"  But  hush  !  He  is  no  coward,  Giuseppe.  Me, 
I  am  a  coward — but  not  him.  It  was  me  what 
made  him  speak  love.  You  talk  about  God  !  For 
what  does  God  let  us  make  mistakes !  How  can 
we  be  sure?  I  was  crazy  for  him,  and  in  my 
heart  I  felt  sure — sure  it  was  love,  and  I  told  him, 
Giuseppe.  I  made  him  to  love  me.  And  now — 
if  only  you  go  away,  Giuseppe  !  If  you  love  me 
true,  go,  and  let  me  have  peace  and  not  trouble. 
Go  far,  and  let  me  forget  the  sound  of  your  mu 
sic — let  me  forget  your  eyes — let  me  not  see  your 
shape  in  the  air  which  way  I  turn.  Then  it  will 
all  pass  away,  and  I  will  be  like  before.  I  love 
him  good,  Giuseppe.  I  am  not  a  liar.  Only  now 
I  am  like  in  a  dream,  and  in  my  dream  I  see 
only  you.  Now  I  see,  I  know,  what  you  meant, 
Giuseppe,  when  you  said  in  your  sleep  I  stood 
before  you.  But  soon  I  will  wake.  I  will  see 
his  kind  eyes,  and  it  will  pass.  He  will  never 
know." 

"And  who  is  this  man  for  whom  you  put  me 
away  ?" 

"  It  is  time  enough,  Giuseppe  ;  but  better  if 
you  never  know  him.  Go  far  away." 

"  I  go  not  away  without  you,  Carlotta.  Every 
day  I  will  come  till  I  get  you.  I  will  walk  by  your 


98 


side  before  this  man,  and  when  he  looks  at  us  he 
will  see  he  is  a  fool." 

"  I  walk  with  you  no  more,  Giuseppe.  To-night 
finishes.  Come,  let  us  go.  I  heard  a  noise,  and 
just  now  over  there  a  shadow  moved.  I  am  afraid. 
Come." 

As  they  rose  to  go,  the  accordion,  which  Giu 
seppe  grasped  hastily  in  rising,  opening  by  its 
own  weight,  sent  out  an  attenuated  discordant 
wail.  And  to  Pat,  sitting  alone  in  the  shadow  be 
neath,  it  sounded  like  a  weird  Banshee's  shriek 
coming  from  far  over  the  seas. 

The  tender  tremor  in  Carlotta's  voice  when  first 
she  spoke  Giuseppe's  name  had  struck  his  heart 
like  a  death-knell,  and  the  words  which  followed 
were  but  as  clods  falling  upon  a  coffin.  The  girl's 
loyalty  through  it  all  seemed  to  mock  him  like  a 
hymn  at  a  grave.  It  was  as  the  silver  sheen  upon 
the  silken  fabric  of  a  shroud — the  smile  upon  the 
face  of  death. 

For  a  long  time  after  they  had  gone  the  heavy 
timbers  about  him  were  not  more  still  than  he. 

Once  he  thought  he  heard  soft  steps  above  him. 
If  he  had  risen,  he  might  have  seen  two  da^k  fig 
ures  peering  stealthily  about  as  if  looking  for 
some  one.  They  might  have  been  assassins  in 
ambush. 

But  Pat  did  not  even  glance  upward. 

Can  any  one,  by  simply  imagining,  be  sure  he 
half  understands  how  this  man  felt  ?  or  must  he 
have  passed  through  the  shades  of  a  like  sorrow 


"THE  HEAVY  TIMBERS  ABOUT  HIM  WERE  NOT  MORE  STILL  THAN  HE" 


to  know  its  black,  bleak  depths  and  the  hopeless 
ness  of  it  ?  It  is  hard  to  say. 

His  first  movement  was  to  cast  his  eyes  about 
him  upon  the  water.  It  was  all  around  him — so 
near — so  inviting.  It  seemed  almost  to  call  him. 
It  would  have  been  so  easy,  from  where  he  sat, 
just  to  lean  over  and  over,  like  Maupassant's  little 
blue-and-red  soldier,  as  if  he  were  trying  to  drink. 
There  would  be  only  a  few  bubbles — fit  emblems 
of  his  life  and  its  story — and  so  it  would  end. 

Had  he  not  promised  her  his  grave  whenever  it 
would  be  a  safe  bridge  over  her  troubles  ?  The 
time  had  come.  Or  had  it  come?  Would  the 
plunge  be  for  her  sake  or  his  own  ?  Was  he, 
after  all,  a  coward — he  who  had  never  run  from 
a  foe  in  his  life — who  had  even  fought  and  van 
quished  his  potheen  with  a  flask  in  his  pocket? 

Distinct  rapid  footsteps  above  startled  him,  and 
he  raised  his  eyes.  As  he  did  so,  a  bundle  fell  at 
his  side  into  the  water,  and  the  steps  retreated. 

He  seemed  to  see  a  struggle  as  the  dark  object 
twisted  for  a  second  within  the  rings  of  the  eddy 
that  swallowed  it  down;  but  he  could  not  be  sure. 
In  a  moment,  however,  he  heard,  quite  near,  the 
thin,  wiry  cry  of  a  young  kitten.  He  looked  about 
him  and  above,  but  could  see  nothing  of  it,  though 
the  sound  came  again  and  again.  Finally,  how 
ever,  a  desperate  wail  located  the  sufferer. 

On  the  outside  of  the  heavy  timbers,  caught 
in  its  fall  by  a  protruding  splinter  or  spike,  the 
wretched  little  creature  hung  suspended,  its  own 


100 


weight  and  struggles  imprisoning  it  more  securely 
each  moment  within  the  notch. 

The  struggling  contents  of  the  whirling  bundle 
were  explained.  This  little  unfortunate  had  slipped 
out  of  the  open  bag  in  its  fall,  to  perish  high  and 
dry  in  the  night  wind,  or  to  be  scoi-ched  by  the 
sun  should  it  survive  the  night. 

Pat  regarded  the  writhing  little  form  a  moment 
only. 

"Sure  we're  in  the  same  boat,  kitty,  you  an' 
me,"  he  said,  aloud ;  "  we're  wan  too  many  in  a 
crowded  worrld.  But,  plaze  God,  I'll  give  ye  the 
same  chance  I'll  take  meself — in  the  name  o'  Him 
that  shaped  the  two  av  us." 

With  this,  seizing  the  fragment  of  a  broken  oar, 
he  swung  himself  outside  the  timbers. 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice  two  black  shadows 
rushed  noiselessly  across  the  wharf,  and,  quickly 
reaching  the  edge,  peered  over. 

What  they  saw  was  only  a  whining  young  kit 
ten  crawling  feebly  along  the  raft. 

The  upward  reach  with  the  oar  which  liberated 
the  little  beast  and  sent  him  back  to  life  had 
thrown  his  deliverer  accidentally  backward.  The 
grip  of  his  one  leg  about  the  post  had  served  only 
to  let  him  down,  down,  gently,  noiselessly,  into  the 
eddying  current,  which  sucked  him  under  the  raft 
without  even  a  twirl  or  a  twist.  There  was  not 
so  much  as  a  gurgle  of  the  waters  as  he  sank. 

The  black  figures  waited  a  long  time,  lying  on 
their  faces  and  listening,  and  two  stilettos  were 


101 


drawn  and  ready.  When  the  voice  should  speak 
again,  they  would  do  their  work  quickly;  for  the 
emissaries  of  the  Mafia  are  wont  to  use  despatch. 

It  was  past  midnight,  and  the  moon  was  rising, 
when  at  last,  despairing  and  mystified,  they  sep 
arated  reluctantly,  and  by  different  routes  went 
to  report  another  failure  to  old  Pietro  Socola, 
their  chief. 

The  Di  Carlos  wondered  with  great  anxiety 
why  Pat  did  not  come  home,  and  all  during  the 
night  the  signora  started  at  every  sound,  fancy 
ing  she  heard  his  wooden  peg  ascending  the 
stairs. 

It  was  on  the  second  day  afterwards  when  a  boy 
in  the  shop  read  from  the  daily  paper  that  the 
body  of  a  one-legged  man  had  been  washed  up 
against  a  coal-barge  floating  in  the  river  near 
Canal  Street. 

The  father  Di  Carlo  went  immediately  to  in 
vestigate  the  matter,  and  when  he  came  home  an 
hour  later,  and  the  family  gathered  about  him, 
anxious  to  hear  the  news,  he  only  shook  his  head 
sadly,  and,  taking  from  his  handkerchief  an  old 
red  baby  shoe,  he  said,  "  It  was  in  his  inside 
pocket." 

Customers  who  came  in  at  the  time,  and  people 
passing  by,  thought  from  their  distress  that  a 
member  of  the  family  was  dead. 

Carlotta,  trembling  and  white  as  marble,  went 
away  alone. 

An  investigation  of  Pat's  affairs  and  effects  dis- 


102 


closed  a  will,  made  some  years  before,  bequeath 
ing  to  Carlotta  all  his  worldly  goods. 

A  large  proportion  of  this — which  proved  quite 
a  neat  competence  —  she  expended,  despite  her 
mother's  frugal  protest  that  it  could  do  him  no 
good,  in  a  handsome  marble  shaft  to  his  memory. 
In  its  unique  inscription,  which  was  of  her  own 
dictation,  she  sought  to  make  some  sort  of  repa 
ration  for  the  sin  of  which  she  accused  herself. 

The  monument  still  stands  in  the  corner  of  St. 
Patrick's  Cemetery,  and  reads: 


IN     MEMORY 

OF 

Patrick  ttooncn, 

INTEND    OF   CARLOTTA    Dl    CARLO, 
AGE.  42  YEARS. 


And  on  any  All  -  Saints'  Day,  Carlotta  and  Giu 
seppe,  with  their  flock  of  beautiful  children,  may 
be  seen  to  stop  there  for  a  while,  leaving  a  bou 
quet  of  plush -topped  coxcombs  and  a  cross  of 
white  chrysanthemums. 


BUD   ZUNTS'S   MAIL 


BUD   ZUNTS'S    MAIL 
B  IRomance  of  tbc  SfmpfctnsvUle  ff>ost*otfice 

" '  NOTHIN'  for  you,  Bud  Zunts  !'  Seem  like  I 
ought  to've  heerd  that  often  enough  to  know  it 
by  this  time — but  I  don't.  I  don't  even  to  say 
half  b'lieve  it  when  I  do  hear  it — no,  I  don't." 

Bud  Zunts  had  just  come  out  of  the  Simpkins- 
ville  post-office,  and,  mounting  the  seat  of  his 
wagon,  he  turned  his  oxen's  heavy  heads  slowly 
homeward. 

"Th'ain't  been  a  night  sence  she's  been  a-sayin' 
it,"  he  continued,  as  the  ponderous  beasts  made 
a  lunge  out  of  the  deep  ruts — "th'ain't  been  a 
night  in  three  year  sence  she's  been  a-sayin'  it 
but  I've  mo'n  half  expected  to  see  her  han'  out  a 
letter,  an'  I  c'n  see  the  purty  blue  veins  in  'er 
han's  when  she'd  be  handin'  it  out  — "  He 
chuckled.  "  'N'  I  c'n  see  'er  smile  like  's  ef  she 
was  tickled  to  see  me  paid  at  last  for  stoppin' 
every  night  in  all  these  year  t'  inquire.  'Tis  purty 
tiresome  —  some  nights  —  but  of  co'se  when  a 
man's  a-co'tin'  he  can't  expec' — he  can't  expec' — 
Tell  the  truth,  I  reck'n  I  dun'no'  nothin'  'bout 
co'tin'.  I  wush  't  I  did  know.  Seem  like  ma 


106 


tried  to  teach  me  a  little  bit  of  every  kind  o' 
learnin'  she  knew  about,  but  don't  seem  like  she 
could  've  knew  much  about  co'tin',  nohow. 

"Th'ain't  never  been  a  time,  turn  my  min'  free 
ez  I  can,  thet  I  c'n  understan'  how  in  creation  pa 
ever  co'ted  ma — th'ain't,  for  a  fac'.  I've  'magined 
it  every  way  I  c'n  twis'  things,  an'  I've  made  'er 
young  an?  purty,  'n'  I've  plumped  'er  out — pore 
ma  was  awful  thin  and  rawboned,  jest  like  me, 
ever  sence  I  c'n  ricollec' — but  I've  plumped  'er 
out  in  my  min',  'n'  I've  frizzled  'er  hair,  'n' 
smoothed  down  'er  cowlick,  but  even  then  I  'ain't 
been  able  to  see  'er  bein'  co'ted  'thout  fussin' — 
noways.  Pore  ma.  She  cert'n'y  was  the  best 
an'  the  most  worrisome  woman  thet  God  ever 
made. 

"I  won't  say  she  had  was  the  best  neither,  for 
I  been  a-co'tin'  Miss  C'delia  now  three  year  'n'  six 
mont's  an'  three  nights  to-night,  'n'  watchin'  'er 
constant,  an'  I  Vlieve  she's  ez  good  a  woman  ez 
ma  was  —  ever'  bit  —  'thout  'er  worrisome  ways, 
too — pore  ma." 

Bud  Zunts  mused  here  a  few  moments,  but 
presently  he  chuckled  again  : 

"Here  I  set  a-talkin'  'bout  co'tin',  's  ef  every 
body  knowed  it,  'n'  I  dun'no'  ez  anybody  do  but 
me.  Wonder  ef  Miss  C'delia  think  I'd  stop  every 
night  for  fo'  year — goin'  on — 'n'  ast  for  letters 
'n'  never  git  a  one,  'n'  wait  tell  the  las'  person 
goes  out  every  night,  'n'  stop  'n'  lock  the  gate 
'n'  climb  over  the  pickets  (she  thinks  I  lock  the 


107 


gate  on  the  outside  V  fling  the  key  back — she 
m.ns'  think  I  take  a  mighty  good  aim  to  hit  the 
aidge  o'  the  do'-sill  every  time).  Wonder  ef  she 
do  think  I  do  that-a-way  ever'  night,  th'  way  I 
do,  jest  to  be  a-doin'  ?  'N'  I  wonder  ef  she  ever 
heerd  me  a-tryin'  the  winder-shetters  to  make 
shore  nobody  'd  bother  'er  du'in'  the  night  ?" 
He  laughed  softly. 

"  Move  on,  Bute  !  Bute  'n'  Fairy  's  about  ez 
down-hearted  a  pair  o'  oxen  to-night  ez  ever  I 
see." 

The  roads  were  heavy  and  wet,  and  man,  beasts, 
and  wagon  were  old,  so  the  equipage  moved  slowly, 
bogging  and  sputtering  occasionally  in  soft  spots 
— like  the  soliloquy. 

"  Yas,"  he  resumed,  presently,  "  I  been  a,co'tin 
Miss  C'delia  for  fo'  year  —  goin'  on — 'n'  I  'ain't 
never  spoke  yet — many  nights  ez  I've  laid  off  to. 
Ef  she  didn't  keep  the  pos'-office,  so's  I  c'n  see  'er 
every  evenin'  an'  aSund'ymornin's  thoo  the  little 
winder,  'n'  get  my  daily  «'wcour'gements  'n'  dis- 
cour'gements,  I'd  've  spoke  long  ago — 'n'  maybe 
'stid  o'  me  an'  Bute  'n'  Fairy  trudgin'  'long  so 
slow  in  the  mud  to-night,  not  keerin'  much 
whether  or  when  we  git  home,  I  might  be — we 
might  be — she  might — 

"I  do  declare,  the  way  I  do  set  up  here  'n' 
giggle  is  redic'lous  ! 

"  Wo,  Bute  !  These  here  slushy  ruts  is  awful 
— mud  clean  up  to  the  hub  !" 

So  Bud  Zunts  proceeded  on  his  lonely  way, 


108 


until  he  finally  reached  his  own  gate — the  humble 
entrance  to  the  two-roomed  cabin  that  dignified 
his  meagre  little  farm,  lying  on  the  edge  of  Simp- 
kinsville. 

After  the  front  door  was  closed  to-night,  Miss 
Cordelia  Cummins,  the  post-mistress,  stood  for  a 
long  time  behind  her  pigeon-hole  barrier,  looking 
over  the  remaining  mail. 

"  Here's  mo'  letters  'n  enough  for  Kate  Clark 
— 'n'  papers,  too,"  she  said,  audibly.  "  Some  o' 
the  papers  got  'er  po'try  printed  in  'em,  an'  some 
'ain't.  Here's  one  o'  hers  now—  '  A  Midnight 
Monody';  wonder  what  that  means?  It's  hers, 
I'm  shore,  'cause  it's  signed  by  her  pen-nondy- 
plume,  '  Silver  Sheen.' 

"  I  s'pose  that  is  mo'  suited  for  a  po'try-writer's 
name  'n  '  Kate  Clark '  'd  be  ;  but  seem  to  me  I 
wouldn't  deny  my  name,  noways  —  po'try  or  no 
po'try ! 

"  These  paper- wrappers  stick  mighty  tight.  I 
'mos'  split  this  'n  gettin'  it  back  on. 

"  I  see  she's  got  two  letters  from  the  telegraph 
station.  Funny  how  thin  an'  fine  that  young  man 
does  write — like  he  craved  to  whisper.  He  writes 
precizely  like  a  lady.  Ef  ever  I  did  get  a  letter 
from  a  male  person,  I'd  choose  for  'im  to  have  a 
mannish  handwrite — 'clare  I  would. 

"Two  fom  'im  to-day  an'  one  to  'im.  Well, 
I'm  proud  to  see  Kate's  a-keepin'  'm  where  he 
b'longs.  I  dun'no',  either ;  come  to  feel  'em,  I 


109 


b'lieve  her  one  letter's  heavier'n  both  o'  hisn ;  V 
it's  writ  on  pink  paper,  too ;  V  it's  got  smellin' 
stuff  in  it — shore's  I've  got  a  nose ! 

"  I  do  wonder  ef  Kate  writes  love-verses  to  'im  ! 
I  hardly  b'lieve  it  of  'er — though  I  dun'no'. 

"Here's  at  least  fo'  love-letters  in  a  row,  V  I 
don't  doubt  the  las'  one  of  'em  is  so  sweet  inside 
thet  ef  they  was  lef  open  in  the  sun  the  honey 
bees  'd  light  on  'em. 

"  Sometimes  I  do  wush  't  I'd  get  a  letter  myself 
— jest  a  reel  out-'n'-out  love-letter,  same  ez  ef  I 
wasn't  pos'-mist'ess — not  thet  I'd  b'lieve  any  writ- 
ten-out  foolishness,  of  co'se — but  jest  for  the  fun 
of  it.  Maybe  ef  I  didn't  handle  so  many  I  wouldn't 
think  about  it. 

"  I  do  hones'  b'lieve  thet  th'  ain't  another  per 
son  a-livin'  in  the  county — that  is,  no  grown-up 
person — black  nor  white,  but's  got  a  letter  some 
time  'r  other — less'n,  of  co'se,  Bud  Zunts. 

"  But  I'm  jest  a  leetle  bit  ahead  o'  you,  Bud,  on 
that.  I  know  you  'ain't  never  got  none,  V  you 
don't  know  how  many  I  get. 

"  Sometimes  I  do  hate  to  tell  'im  th'  ain't  nothin' 
for  'im,  pore  boy  !  Lis'n  at  me  a-callin'  'im  boy, 
W  he  a  month  'n'  three  days  older'n  me,  an'  I'm — 
jest  to  think,  I'm  purty  nigh  ez  ole  ez  Bud  Zunts, 
an'  he  gray  ez  a  rat !  But  I  reck'n  his  ma  wor- 
reted  'im  all  but  gray. 

"Pore  Mis'  Zunts!  She  was  a  good  woman, 
Mis'  Zunts  Avas,  but  I've  seen  some  worse  ones  I'd 
a  heap  ruther  live  with. 


110 


"  She  cert'n'y  was  worrysome — but  I  don't  doubt 
Bud  is  the  best-trained  young  man  in  the  county 
to-day.  He  turned  out  'is  toes,  V  said  'ma'am' 
an'  '  sir,'  when  he  warn't  no  mo'n  knee-high  to  a 
toad-frog.  An'  he  knew  the  whole  Shorter  Cate 
chism  'fore  he  could  pernounce  a  half  o'  the  words; 
but  as  for  understandin'  it  —  well,  I  often  think 
maybe  that's  reserved  for  Heaven,  anyway. 

"I  do  wonder  what  pore  Bud  does  when  he 
goes  home  of  nights?  It  mus'  be  awful  lonesome 
for  'im  when  the  lamp's  lit — ef  he  lights  a  lamp. 
You  never  can  tell  jest  how  low  down  a  man  lef 
to  hisself  will  get.  Pore  Bud !  They's  jest  one 
thing  his  ma  didn't  teach  him — an'  that's  cour'ge. 
Sometimes  the  most  c'rageous  person  agoin'  'li 
seem  to  squench  all  the  cour'ge  out  of  another 
person,  'n'  not  mean  to  do  it,  neither. 

"  Now  I  know  Bud's  a-yearnin'  to  speak  to  me 
— ef  I  know  anything — 'n'  sometimes  I'm  a'mos' 
tempted  to  help  'im  out,  but  I'd  never  half  re 
spect  'im  ef  I  did — nor  myself  neither. 

"I  did  start  one  night  to  say,  '•Pm  sorry  th' 
ain't  nothin'  fo'  you  to-night,  Bud  Zunts,'  'n'  then 
I  wouldn't — art  I  won't !  I  won't  have  it  said  I 
give  'im  that  much  encour'gement. 

"  'Ef  he's  a  womanish  man,  I  won't  match  'im 
by  bein'  a  mannish  woman.  But  I  do  wush  't  I 
knew  ef  he  was  wearin'  woollen  next  to  'is  skin  or 
not."  She  sighed.  "Ef — ef  Bud  was  to  take  the 

O 

pneumony  to-morrer — well,  I  dun'no'  what  I'd  do, 
but  I  reck'n,  knowin'  what's  on  his  miu'  an'  what's 


Ill 


on  mine,  it  'd  be  my  abounding  duty  to  go,  'thout 
sayin'  a  word,  an'  nurse  'im  thoo  it — to  sort  o'  fin 
ish  out  the  pantomime  he's  done  started.  But  it 
'd  pleg  me  awful — 'deed  it  would.  I've  laid  awake 
mo'n  one  col'  spell  jest  a-prayin'  the  Lord  not  to 
make  it  my  clair  duty  to  go  an'  nurse  Bud  thoo  a 
spell  o'  sickness  befo'  he's  foun'  cour'ge  to  speak 
'is  min'  to  me.  I  would  o'  prayed  the  Lord  to  give 
'im  cour'ge — but  I  won't  do  it!  Ef  it's  come  to 
sech  a  pass  thet  a  man  has  to  ask  me  to  marry  'im 
with  the  cour'ge  I  prayed  for — then  I'll  keep  pos'- 
office  all  my  days,  V  jest  live  along  with  Polly 
like  I  do."  As  she  spoke  she  glanced  up  at  a  par 
rot,  who  sat  half  asleep  on  his  perch  near. 

"  I  won't  give  Bud  no  encour'gement ;  no  I 
won't,  Poll  —  nor  myself  neither.  I  won't  even 
make  a  extry  yard  o'  tattin'  tell  he's  spoke — 'deed 
I  won't.  But  I  do  wush  't  I  knew  'bout  his  wearin' 
good  flannen  next  to  'is  skin.  These  red-headed 
V  red- whiskered  folks  is  mighty  thin  an'  deli 
cate-skinned,  'n'  Bud's  been  so  watched  over  'n' 
preserved  by  'is  ma,  he  ain't  never  took  none  of 
his  diseases  in  proper  season,  not  even  the  whup- 
pin'-cough,  'n'  the  first  heavy  col'  he  gets  '11  go 
purty  hard  on  'im.  I  do  b'lieve  Mis'  Zunts  wouldn't 
o'  let  'im  cut  'is  teeth  ef  she  could  o'  helped  it — 
jest  so  she  could  o'  had  the  excitement  o'  chewin' 
for  'im. 

"  I  declare !  Ef  Sally  Ann  Brooks  ain't  a-send- 
iu'  a  postal-card  to  New  York  to  order  a  ready- 
inade  night-gownd !  I  do  vow  some  folks  'ain't 


112 


got  a  bit  o'  modesty — V  her  own  name  mentioned, 
V  her  measure  too;  'n'  everybody  'twixt  here  'n' 
New  York  liable  to  read  it — 'n'  most  o'  the  postal 
clerks  young  men  at  that ! 

"  They's  a  good  many  postals  thet  I  disapprove 
of  lef  this  office,  but  this  is  the  worst. 

"  I've  got  a  good  notion  to  put  it  in  a  envelope 
n'  'dress  it  over  again — not  for  Sally  Ann's  sake, 
ef  she  wants  to  discuss  her  night-gownds  with  the 
readin'  public  gen'ally,  but  for  the  sake  o'  Simp- 
kinsville's  reputation  in  New  York  city.  I'm 
a-goin'  to  do  it !" 

Seizing  an  envelope,  she  proceeded  forthwith  to 
clothe  and  readdress  the  offensive  card,  and  then 
clapping  a  stamp  upon  it,  she  exclaimed,  with  sat 
isfaction  : 

"Now,  you're  decent!" 

Then  she  took  up  a  letter. 

"I  see  Miss  Sophia  Falena  Simpkins  is  gett'n' 
letters  right  along  f'om  Washin'ton  city.  Like 
ez  not  some  ef  not  every  one  o'  them  all-devourin' 
Yankees  're  sett'n'  up  to  'er  for  'er  fortune — but 
I  do  hope  she  won't  give  in ! 

"  I  see  she's  taken  to  puffin'  'er  hair  lately,  but 
maybe  that's  on  account  o'  its  gettin'  skimpy.  A 
holler  puff  makes  a  little  hair  go  a  long  ways. 
'T wouldn't  do  mine  any  harm  to  puff  it  a  little — 
'n'  I'd  do  it  ef  'twasn't  for  Bud  Zunts.  I  said  I 
wouldn't  turn  a  hair  to  encour'ge  him  —  an?  I 
wont ! 

"He's  jest  about  gettin'  home  now — I  see  it's 


113 


eight  o'clock  —  'n'  like  ez  not  he's  a-sneezin'  'is 
head  off  this  minute — pore  Bud  !" 

During  this  prolonged  monologue,  much  of 
which  was  scarcely  audible,  Miss  Cordelia  had 
assorted  all  the  outgoing  mail,  stopping  only  once 
to  set  her  coffee-pot  on  the  fire. 

Turning  now,  she  seated  herself  before  the  sin 
gle  plate  upon  the  table,  and  had  dropped  her  head 
for  a  silent  grace,  when  there  came  a  rap  at  the 
door.  This  narrow  portal  opening  on  a  side- 
street  answered  for  "  front "  of  her  humble  dom 
icile,  whose  former  front  was  on  government  duty, 
as  we  have  seen. 

"I'm  a-comin'  right  now,"  she  responded,  some 
what  Hurriedly,  as  she  opened  the  door. 

"  Why,  howdy,  Mis'  Brooks !  Come  in,  Sally 
Ann  !" 

"  I  do  declare,  Miss  Cordelia,  you  an'  Polly  're 
as  cozy  as  two  bugs  in  a  rug,"  said  Mrs.  Brooks, 
unwinding  a  rose-colored  "  fascinator  "  from  her 
head  as  she  sat  down.  "  I  thought  I'd  run  in  V 
set  awhile.  The  children  're  so  fussy,  I  jest  slipped 
out  to  let  their  pa  get  a  tas'e  o'  the  picnic  I  have 
every  day.  I  left  'im  a-playin'  horsy,  crawlin'  on 
all-fo's  on  the  flo',  with  the  baby  on  'is  back,  chas- 
in'  little  Sally  Ann,  with  the  twins  a-whippin'  'im 
up  behin'  with  a  towel,  'n'  I  thought  it  was  a  good 
time  for  me  to  take  a  vacation.  I  did  have  a  let 
ter  to  pos',  but  of  co'se  I  could  o'  slipped  that  in 
the  box  f'om  the  outside  'n'  run  right  back.  Fo' 
goodness'  sake,  look!  There's  somebody  a-slip- 


114 

pin'  in  a  letter  now.  I  heard  it,  V  saw  it  too. 
Wonder,  for  gracious'  sakes,  who  it  was  ?  Don't 
it  make  you  feel  sort  o'  creepy,  Miss  Cordelia, 
settin'  here  by  yoreself  some  nights,  jest  you  an' 
Polly,  to  see  a  letter  come  a-droppin'  in  ?" 

Miss  Cordelia  had  set  a  second  cup  on  the  table, 
and  was  pouring  out  the  coffee. 

"  It  did  seem  sort  o'  funny  at  first,  Sally  Ann, 
'n'  I  ricollec'  I  used  to  push  up  the  winder  V 
try  to  see  who  dropped  it,  but  I  foun'  they  was 
mo'  neuraligy  than  satisfaction  to  be  got  out  o' 
that,  'n'  I  c'n  gen'ally  tell  who  drops  mail  now 
'thout  lookin.'  Draw  up  yo'  chair,  Sally  Ann,  'n' 
take  some  coffee,  'n'  I'll  go  see  what  letter  that  is." 

She  rose  and  stepped  to  the  box.  She  was 
thinking  of  Sally  Ann's  postal,  and  a  sense  of  guilt 
in  the  matter  made  her  somewhat  nervous. 

"Law  sakes!"  she  exclaimed,  bringing  forward 
the  letter.  "  This  here's  a  ole  nigger's  mail.  Jest 
s'posin'  I'd  o'  bumped  my  head  an'  maybe  broke 
a  winder-pane  (both  o'  which  I've  did  a-many  a 
time)  jest  to  see  the  tail  of  old  Solon's  mule  ez  he 
ambles  down  the  road — wouldn't  I  feel  cheap? 
You  know  Solon's  wife,  Hannah,  is  cookin'  down 
to  the  telegraph  station,  an'  they  write  to  one  an 
other  jest  the  same  ez  white  folks." 

"  You  don't  say  !" 

"  Why,  yas;  th'  ain't  a  week  but  one  letter  goes 
each  way;  an'  I  don't  reck'n  they's  one  but's  got 
po'try  in  it.  Every  time  /  write  for  'im  he  makes 
me  put  it  in,  I  know" 


115 

"For  the  land  sakes!  I  wouldn't  think  he  knew 
any." 

"  He  dorit  know  but  two  pieces — '  Rose  's  red,' 
and, 

"  '  Ez  shore's  the  vine  grows  roun'  the  stump, 
You  is  my  darlin'  sugar  lump.' 

Seem  like  he  don't  keer  much  which  one  I  put  in, 
an'  sometimes  he  jest  leaves  it  to  me,  an'  I  write 
either  'How  firm  a  foundation,'  or  '"When  I  can 
read  my  title  clair,'  an'  he  seems  jest  as  much 
tickled ;  V  I'm  shore  she's  likely  to  get  more  good 
out  of  'em.  Didn't  you  say  you  had  a  letter  to 
mail?" 

"  Yas,  'm;  here  'tis;  an'  I  want  to  ast  you,  Miss 
C'delia,  ef  I  couldn't  get  back  a  postal  I  sent  this 
mornin' — that  is,  of  co'se,  less'n  it's  already  gone." 

Miss  Cordelia  caught  her  breath.  "Why,  no, 
Sally  Ann,  'tain't  to  say  gone,  but — but — " 

"  But  you've  done  put  it  in  the  bag — an'  it  fast 
ened?" 

"  Well,  yas,  Sally  Ann ;  tell  the  truth,  the  bag 
it's  in  is  fastened  up  secure." 

"  I  thought  maybe  'twould  be,  V  I'm  half  glad. 
I  spent  all  yesterday  tryin'  to  decide  whether  to 
order  a  night  -  gownd  with  lace  let  in  or  a  solid 
Hamburg  yoke,  'n'  ever  sence  I  ordered  the  lace 
one  I've  had  the  fidgets  for  the  other.  So  now 
I've  wrote  'em  to  sen'  both,  'n'  ef  they  get  the 
postal  too,  I  reckon  I'll  have  three;  an',  Lordy, 
won't  I  be  fine  ?" 


116 


Now  was  Miss  Cordelia's  chance  for  her  moral 
lecture,  but  so  had  conscience  conscripted  her 
into  its  legion  of  cowards  that  she  sat  with  thump 
ing  heart,  silent,  until  it  was  given  her  to  remark, 
by  way  of  escape,  "  I  see  you  an'  Lucy  Jones  're 
correspondin'  agin." 

"  Not  again,  but  yet.  We're  jest  as  thick  as 
ever.  We've  jest  been  changin'  wrapper  patterns 
again.  She  sent  me  this'n  last  summer.  Look 
how  purty  it  sets." 

Mrs.  Brooks  rose  and  turned  around.  "It  does 
set  lovely,  Sally  Ann — Mother  Hubbard  front,  an' 
sort  o'  bas'  back — ain't  it? — with  a — what's  this?" 

"  Why,  that's  a  Watter  pleat.     They're  all  the 

go-" 

"  Mh-hm.  It's  mighty  purty.  Funny  how  they 
get  names,  ain't  it?  Now  I  s'pose  they  call  that 
a  water  pleat  on  'count  of  its  a-fallin'  all  the  way 
down  like  a  water-fall." 

"I  don't  reely  know.  'Tain't  spelled  that  a- 
way.  It's  W-a-t-t-e-a-u,  printed  on  the  pattern, 
but  maybe  that's  French.  Come  to  think,  e-a-u 
is  French  for  water,  that  much  I  know. 

"But  guess  what's  a-comin'  in  nex',  Miss  Cor 
delia.  Ole  Mis'  Bradley  '11  lead  the  style  at  last." 

"  You  don't  mean  hoops !" 

"Guessed  it  the  first  pop!  Yas,  I  do  mean 
hoops,  too.  They're  jest  a-sailin'  in,  big  as  life." 

"But  tell  me,  does  Mis'  Bradley  know  it?" 

"  I  don't  know  's  she  does.  I'd  go  an'  tell  'er, 
but  she's  so  deef  I  can't  talk  to  her.  Don't  she 


117 


look  too  funny  when  she  comes  in  church  a-Sun- 
days  with  'er  same  old  hoops,  an'  that  silk  man 
tilla  an'  shoulder-pins,  'n'  that  curtain  on  the  back 
of  her  bonnet?  She  shorely  is  a  sight.  'N'  yet 
seem  like  Simpkinsville  wouldn't  be  like  Simp- 
kinsville  'thout  Mis'  Bradley." 

"  Mis'  Bradley  is  a  mighty  nice  lady,  Sally  Ann, 
an'  a  good  Christian." 

"An'  don't  I  know  it?  Th'  ain't  anybody 
thinks  mo'  of  'er  'n  I  do,  but  that  don't  make  me 
borry  'er  cape  patterns.  But  she's  a  Christian, 
shore.  Do  you  know,  she's  taught  my  children 
nearly,  every  prayer  in  the  prayer-book  —  not  to 
mention  hymns.  She  gets  'em  over  there  Sunday 
evenin's,  an'  has  a  reg'lar  Sunday-school  for  'em. 
She  makes  'em  come  up,  one  by  one,  an'  say  their 
verses  right  in  'er  ear  -  trumpet,  'n'  the  young 
ones  're  tickled  to  death  over  it.  She  ast  Bud 
Zunts  to  come  an'  help  her,  an'  sort  o'  be  super'n- 
tendent.  But  I  reck'n  she  was  jest  a-tryin'  to 
get  Bud  interested.  They  say  he  don't  show  in- 
teres'  in  nothin'  much  but  writin'  letters  sence  'is 
ma's  gone,  'n'  they  do  say  he's  a-co'tiri1  somebody 
by  mail,  'n'  thet  he  never  goes  to  sleep  'thout 
comin'  in  town  for  'is  letters.  Is  that  so,  Miss 
Cordelia  ?" 

"  Well,  Sally  Ann,  sence  you  ask  me,  Bud  does 
call  for  'is  mail  purty  reg'lar." 

"You  don't  say  thet  he  gets  a  letter  every 
day?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  say  he  does,  an'  I  don't  say  he 


118 


don't.  Even  ef  I  kep'  a  'count  o'  Bud's  mail  in  a 
book,  which  I  don't,  'twouldn't  be  right  for  me  to 
tell  mo'n  he  choose  to  tell  'isself." 

"Well,  I've  begged  Teddy  to  watch  an'  see 
what  he  gets  of  evenin's,  an',  tell  the  truth,  I've 
come  myself  ;  but  seem  like  Bud  waits  till  purty 
near  the  last  one,  an'  I've  got  jest  enough  man 
ner's  mixed  up  with  my  curiosity  to  make  me  go 
out  with  the  crowd." 

"Well,  you  see,  Sally  Ann,  when  folks  wait 
their  turn,  I  give  'em  their  mail  where  they  b'long 
in  the  A  B  C's,  'n'  Zunts,  you  know — that  comes 
purty  far  down  in  the  alphabet,  'n'  Bud  never 
pushes  'isself.  'F  anybody  was  to  stay  a  Z  out, 
it  'd  look  like  they  wasn't  no  mo'n  a  sort  o'  so 
fo'th — no  'count  on  earth  excep'n'  to  foller  behin' 
somethin'  thet  does  count.  You'd  get  yore  mail 
purty  soon,  anyway,  bein'  a  B." 

Miss  Cordelia  could  be  severe  on  occasion. 

"  An'  so  ole  Bud's  a-co'tin' !  I  do  declare !  I 
s'pose  it's  all  right  fo'  ole  folks  to  co't,  but  it  does 
seem  to  strike  my  funnybone,  somehow." 

Mrs.  Brooks  laughed  merrily.  Miss  Cordelia 
cleared  her  throat. 

"Mind  you,  Sally  Ann,  I  never  said  Bud  Zunts 
was  a-co'tin'.  Ef  he  is,  he  'ain't  never  tol'  me." 

At  this  point  both  women  were  startled  by  a 
shrill  scream  quite  near.  In  a  high  falsetto  voice 
came  the  exclamation  "Nothin'  for  you,  Bud 
Zunts!"  Whether  Poll  the  parrot  had  been  study 
ing  over  this  oft -repeated  sentence,  keeping  it  on 


Ill) 


deposit  for  timely  utterance,  or,  as  seems  more 
probable,  the  only  connection  in  which  he  had 
ever  heard  the  name  was  to  him  a  complete  form, 
which  he  instinctively  recalled  on  hearing  a  part 
of  it,  would  be  hard  to  say;  but  there  was  some 
thing  distinctly  uncanny  in  the  opportune  deliv 
ery,  an  effect  decidedly  heightened  by  the  dark 
corner  from  which  the  voice  came,  as  well  as  by 
the  peal  of  ringing  bird-laughter  which  followed. 

Mrs.  Brooks  drew  her  shawl  over  her  head,  and, 
falling  upon  her  knees,  put  her  face  in  Miss  Cor 
delia's  lap. 

"  Lord  have  mercy !"  she  exclaimed.  "  I  b'lieve 
that  bird  is  the  ole  boy  'isself ;  'deed  I  do.  Good 
gracious,  Miss  Cordelia  !  An'  did  you  hear  that? 
Another  letter  in  the  box !  I  heard  it  fall — V 
the  clock's  a-tickin'  like  thunder —  'n'  I  hear  foot 
steps  ;  I  declare  I  do  !" 

"  Cert'n'y,  Sally  Ann !  How'd  the  letter  come 
in  the  box  'thout  footsteps  ?"  Miss  Cordelia  man 
aged  to  say,  finally;  but  it  was  with  much  effort, 
as  she  was  far  the  more  seriously  startled  of  the 
two. 

The  sentence  she  had  been  saying  daily  for 
years — that  had  become,  indeed,  a  sort  of  refrain 
in  her  own  life — had  burned  deeper  into  her  sensi 
bilities  than  she  knew,  and  to  hear  it  from  other 
lips  even  would  have  startled  her,  but  coming 
from  this  weird  bird,  just  at  the  critical  moment 
when  she  was  struggling  between  veracity  and 
loyalty  to  Bud  Zunts,  filled  her  with  something 


120 


akin  to  terror.  It  seemed  an  imperative  challenge 
to  her  for  the  whole  truth.  If  she  would  not  tell 
it,  Poll  would. 

There  is  no  telling  where  it  might  have  led  had 
Sally  Ann  kept  silent ;  but  she  had  soon  taken 
the  floor  figuratively  as  well  as  literally,  and  was 
presently  laughing  and  crying  in  so  hysterical  a 
fashion  that  Miss  Cordelia  felt  it  necessary  to 
chafe  her  hands  and  temples,  and  finally  to  ac 
company  her  across  the  field,  where  she  cringed 
at  every  shadow  until  she  reached  her  gate. 

When  Miss  Cordelia  returned  to  her  own  door 
she  touched  its  latch  for  the  first  time  in  her  life 
with  trembling  fingers.  She  felt  almost  afraid  to 
enter  her  room.  The  secret  she  had  scarcely 
turned  over  in .  her  own  breast  had  been  glibly 
spoken  by  a  senseless  bird,  and  in  the  confusion 
of  the  first  shock  she  had  half  believed  the  prat 
ing  creature  a  thing  of  evil,  as  Sally  Ann  had 
said. 

Mrs.  Brooks  had  turned  white  and  "gone  to 
pieces  "  simply  to  hear  the  bird  supply  a  sentence 
fitting  exactly  into  the  theme  of  conversation. 
He  knew  they  were  talking  of  Bud  Zunts's  mail. 
To  Miss  Cordelia  he  knew  all — the  years  of  wait 
ing,  the  silent  courtship,  her  resolution  to  stand 
firm  at  her  end  of  the  line,  her  present  dilemma. 

She  stood  some  moments  irresolute,  her  hand 
upon  the  latch;  but  finally,  with  a  determined 
movement,  she  walked  in.  The  room  was  nearly 
dark,  the  candle  burning  low  in  its  socket,  and 


121 


flaring  up  occasionally,  only  to  throw  out  hints 
of  grotesque  shadows. 

Miss  Cordelia  locked  the  door,  and,  seizing  a 
match,  lit  first  the  two  candles  standing  on  either 
end  of  the  mantel,  and  then  the  lamp,  which  she 
turned  up  to  its  highest  point;  and  now  she  thi-ew 
an  armful  of  pine  knots  upon  the  fire.  For  one 
thing,  she  would  have  plenty  of  light.  Then 
walking  directly  up  to  Poll's  perch,  and  regard 
ing  him  sternly,  she  said,  in  a  voice  almost  as 
metallic  as  his  own: 

"  Well,  Polly  Cummins,  you  an'  I  might  ez 
well  have  it  out  first  ez  last.  I  wouldn't  talk  to 
no  sech  unearthly  figgur  ez  you  in  the  dark,  but 
I've  done  struck  a  good  light,  'n'  I'm  bigger 
'n  you  are,  'n'  I  reckon  I'm  older.  It's  al 
ready  come  to  words  between  us,  'n'  maybe  it'll 
come  to  worse;  but  whatever  it  is,  I'm  ready 
for  it." 

She  approached  a  step  nearer,  and  folding  her 
hands  behind  her  and  looking  keenly  into  the 
bird's  eyes,  said:  "Now  I  want  to  know,  how 
much  do  you  know  ?" 

Poll,  curious  at  the  novel  proceeding,  craned 
his  neck,  turning  upon  her  first  one  eye  and  then 
the  other.  The  sudden  glare  no  doubt  made  him 
blink. 

"No,  you  needn't  to  wink  at  me,  Polly,  'n'  you 
needn't  put  out  yore  paw  to  shake  hands,  'n'  you 
needn't  to  make  out  like  you  don't  understand. 
You've  done  committed  yoreself,  'n'  you  can't 


122 


back  out  of  it.  Speak  out  this  minute  when  I  tell 
you.  How  much  do  you  know,  I  say  ?" 

The  silence  that  followed  was  broken  finally  by 
Miss  Cordelia.  Her  voice  had  lost  somewhat  of 
its  severity  when  she  spoke  again. 

"  I've  mistrusted  you  befo'  to-night,  Polly  Cum 
mins.  Many  a  night  when  you've  said  'Good 
night,  Cordelia,'  an'  '  Pleasant  dreams,'  an'  *  God 
bless  you !'  I've  felt  mighty  quare  about  you,  ef  I 
did  teach  it  to  you  myself.  It's  made  me  feel 
mighty  shivery  an'  quare,  I  tell  you,  an'  many's 
the  night  I've  gone  to  sleep  with  a  pretty  creepy 
feelin'  with  yore  human  words  a-ringin'  in  my 
ears.  But  with  it  all  I've  been  mighty  fond  of 
you,  an'  proud  of  you  too,  an'  th'  ain't  a  livin'  soul 
ez  knows  thet  you  say  '  Good-night,  Cordelia,'  to 
me  'thout  the  'Miss '  to  it,  'n'  thet  I  call  you  Polly 
Cummins.  That's  jest  a  little  sociability  'twixt 
you  an'  me,  an'  I've  allowed  it  an'  encour'ged  it 
jest  because  I  icas  fond  of  you,  'n'  I've  reckoned 
you  to  be  the  most  consolin'  bird  for  a  lonely 
person  thet  ever  I  see,  not  to  say  the  smartest. 
That  much  I  knew  by  what  I  could  teach  you  to 
do  an'  to  say.  But  ez  to  what  you've  held  back 
from  me  —  though  I've  had  my  suspicions,  I've 
never  reelly  b'lieved  it  tell  to-night.  But  you've 
had  yore  chance  to  play  smarty,  an'  you've  done 
it!  You  know  thet  of  all  the  people  in  town  th' 
ain't  nobody  thet  'd  make  more  o'  what  you  said 
'n  Sally  Ann  Brooks  will.  She'll  put  on  one  o' 
them  catarac'  wrappers  o'  hers  'n'  run  over  to  the 


123 


'xcbange  quick  ez  she's  swallered  her  breakfast, 
'n'  she'll  tell  that  tale  to  everybody  thet  comes  in 
— 'n'  what  she  don't  add  to  it  they  will,  V  you 
know  it. 

"Ef  you  know  ez  much  ez  you've  showed  you 
know,  why  didn't  you  talk  it  over  with  me  by 
ourselves,  an'  not  make  me  an'  him  both  cheap 
befo'  the  whole  o'  this  gapin'  town  ?  Answer  me, 
Polly  Cummins,  how  much  do  you  know  about  me 
art  Bud  Zunts  ?" 

At  mention  of  this  name,  Poll  raised  his  head 
and  exclaimed,  as  before,  "  Nothin'  for  you,  Bud 
Zunts !" 

Standing  thus  near,  Miss  Cordelia  caught,  as 
she  had  not  done  before,  a  something  in  the  repe 
tition  that  made  her  start  and  turn  suddenly 
white.  It  was  the  exact  reproduction  of  her  own 
intonation.  In  it  she  discerned  all  the  pent-up 
tragedy  of  the  long  waiting,  the  tenderness,  the 
resolve  to  be  unyielding,  which  she  had  felt  safe 
ly  concealed  by  the  oft-repeated  form. 

Turning  suddenly,  she  staggered  to  a  chair,  and 
dropping  her  face  into  her  hands  over  the  table, 
she  sat  a  long  time,  thinking.  When  finally  she 
raised  herself,  her  whole  manner  was  changed. 

"  He  don't  know  nothin',"  she  said,  sadly.  "  He 
don't  know  a  thing  but  what  I've  learned  him. 
He's  only  a  bird,  after  all— pore  Poll!  But  ef  my 
voice  has  been  that  encouragin',  it's  a  wonder 
Bud  ain't  spoke  long  ago.  Pore  ole  Polly  !"  she 
repeated.  "He's  jest  said  what  I've  been  a- 


124 


learnin'  'im  for  goin'  on  f  o'  years.  But  he's  got  -to 
be  unlearned — that's  what  he's  got  to  be !  'N'  it's 
got  to  be  did  right  away,  'n'  I  might  ez  well  be 
gin  now.  Ef  Poll  has  got  to  talk  about  Bud,  I'll 
see  to  it  thet  he  says  somethin'  to  'is  credit,  that 
I  will,  'n'  the  Simpkinsville  folks  can  make  what 
they  choose  out  of  it.  They've  done  give  'im 
credit  for  gettin'  love-letters,  an'  I'll  see  thet  he 
keeps  it." 

Rising,  she  went  back  to  the  perch,  and  said, 
slowly  and  distinctly,  "  They's  a  love-letter  for 
you,  Bud  Zunts." 

"Nothin'  for  you,  Bud  Zunts!"  answered 
Polly. 

"A  love-letter  for  you,  Bud  Zunts!"  repeated 
Miss  Cordelia,  calmly. 

"Nothin'  for  you,  Bud  Zunts,"  insists  Poll 
again ;  and  while  he  laughs,  Miss  Cordelia,  rais 
ing  her  voice,  reiterates: 

"  A  love-letter  for  you,  Bud  Zunts !" 

"  Nothin'  for  you—" 

"  A  love-letter — " 

"  Nothin'  for  you — " 

"  A  love-letter—" 

"Nothin'—" 

"A  love-letter—" 

Miss  Cordelia,  in  her  growing  excitement,  raised 
her  voice  higher  and  higher,  until  it  was  a  shrill 
scream,  while  Poll,  not  to  be  outdone,  screeched 
his  loitdest.  It  was  a  fierce  argument  dramati 
cally  sustained  on  both  sides,  and  there  in  the 


125 


blazing  light  woman  and  bird  appeared  at  their 
best. 

Poll,  safely  perched  somewhat  above  his  oppo 
nent's  head,  had  perhaps  the  best  of  it.  He  did 
not  grow  red  in  the  face  nor  lose  his  poise,  and 
his  back  hair  of  course  could  not  come  down,  as 
did  poor  Miss  Cordelia's,  from  the  insistent  shak 
ing  of  her  head. 

There  is  no  telling  just  how  long  the  contest 
might  have  continued  or  how  it  would  have  re 
sulted  had  not  a  sudden  swishing  sound  just  be 
hind  her  told  Miss  Cordelia  that  somebody  was 
dropping  a  letter  in  the  box.  There  was  some 
one,  of  course,  just  outside  the  door.  Would  he 
notice  the  blazing  light ?  Had  he  heard?  Start 
ing  suddenly,  she  quickly  turned  down  the  lamp 
and  blew  out  both  candles.  Then  she  hurriedly 
got  into  bed.  She  did  not  so  much  as  say  her 
prayers.  She  did  not  even  look  at  the  letter  in 
the  box.  She  was  too  much  frightened. 

Poll,  -  awe-stricken  into  silence  by  the  sudden 
darkness,  made  no  sound  for  some  minutes,  and 
then,  in  a  somewhat  querulous  voice,  he  ventured, 
"Nothin'  for  you,  Bud  Zunts!"  And  Miss  Cor 
delia  did  not  contradict  him. 

But  when  after  a  prolonged  silence  Poll  said, 
"  Good  -  night,  Cordelia!"  she  answered,  feebly, 
"  Good-night,  Polly  !" 

"Happy  dreams!"  continued  Poll. 

"  Happy  dreams !"  responded  a  weak  voice 
from  under  the  covers. 


126 


"  God  bless  you  !"  said  the  bird.  But  Miss 
Cordelia  could  not  answer.  She  was  crying. 

When  Bud  Zunts  got  home  that  night  he  sat 
for  a  long  time  looking  into  the  fire.  He  did  not 
light  a  candle.  He  rarely  did,  in  truth ;  but  wiser 
men  than  he  have  eschewed  candles  when  they 
could  sit  and  weave  gold  and  silver  life  webs  be 
fore  a  fire  of  friendly  logs. 

Bud's  evening  reveries  took  much  of  their  mood 
and  color  from  the  temper  of  the  fire  upon  his 
hearth,  but  he  did  not  know  it.  He  never  got  far 
enough  from  himself  to  get  a  perspective  on 
things  belonging  naturally  to  the  only  home  life 
he  knew,  as  do  the  dear  wise  ones  who  enrich  the 
world  with  charming  and  poetic  studies  of  logs 
and  fireside  reveries.  But  Bud  did  feel  sensibly 
to-night  that  the  logs  were  wet  and  burned  badly, 
and  that  little  narrow  blue  flames  curled  over  their 
mossy  barks.  These  blue  jetting  blazes  he  always 
felt  unpleasantly,  as  if  their  meaning  were  bad — 
perhaps  because  of  their  likeness  to  the  ignition 
of  brimstone  matches.  Bud  faithfully  believed 
in  the  old-fashioned  hell. 

His  clock  had  stopped.  There  had  been  times 
when  he  had  felt  rested  to  have  the  old  clock 
stop.  Such  a  lapse  had  never  occurred  during  the 
nearly  forty  years  of  his  life  with  his  mother.  It 
had  been  as  incessant  as  her  voice,  as  faithful  and 
unswerving,  but  just  a  little  wearing.  But  to 
night,  when  the  wood  sputtered  and  the  wind 


127 


rustled  around  the  corners  of  the  house,  it  made 
him  feel  lonely. 

"  Somehow,  I  miss  ma  to-night,"  he  said,  wear 
ily,  at  last.  "  But  I  know  she'd  scold  ef  she  was 
to  come  in  sudden  an'  see  the  way  things  are. 
Seem  like  I  can't  ricollec'  to  wind  up  that  clock 
reg'lar,  noways.  'N'  ef  she  was  to  see  ole  Domi- 
nicker  a-sett'n  over  yonder  on  the  flour-bar'l — 
well,  I  dun'no'  what  she  icould  say.  How  ma  has 
wrastled  with  that  hen!  Lay  an'  set  on  that  flour- 
bar'l  top  she  would,  spite  o'  the  devil — V  pore 
ma  jest  ez  set  on  breakin'  'er  ! 

"  How  I  have  begged  'er  to  let  me  nail  a  little 
strip  aroun'  the  top  to  keep  the  eggs  f'om  rollin' 
off !  But  she  wouldn't,  an'  jest  ez  reg'lar  ez  her 
back  was  turned  seem  like  Dominicker  'd  up  an' 
lay  a  egg,  an'  it  'd  roll  off  an'  smash,  'n'  ma'd 
whup  'er — but  of  co'se  she  whupped  'er  so  easy 
it  didn't  hurt — an'  nex'  day,  maybe  jest  a  hour 
sooner  or  later,  jest  quick  ez  ma'd  get  both  han's 
in  the  dough,  or  maybe  be  tiltin'  the  wash-kittle, 
she'd  up  an'  perform,  'n'  they'd  have  the  same 
picnic  over  agin.  Lordy  !  but  it  was  tur'ble.  I've 
begged  'er  to  kill  Dominicker  a-many  a  time  when 
the  preachers  'd  come  out  to  dinner,  but  'twasn't 
no  use.  She  'lowed  thet  she'd  kill  'er  after  she'd 
conquered  'er,  an'  not  befo' — 'n'  then  she'd  make 
me  go  an'  kill  some  easy-goin',  Christian-sperited 
hen,  an'  she'd  continue  to  wrastle  with  Domi 
nicker.  I  do  b'lieve  ma's  read  passages  o'  Scrip- 
tur'  an'  prayed  over  breakin'  up  Dominicker  f'om 


128 


sett'n  on  that  flour-bar'l.  An'  it  would  shorely 
pleg  her  mightily  to  know  I'd  fixed  'er  nes'  there, 
jest  the  way  she  wanted  it.  But  I  'lowed  thet 
maybe  ma  wouldn't  know  it,  an'  when  she  was 
here  she  had  her  way,  V  now  th'  ain't  no  con- 
trairy  person  roun'  but  Dominicker,  an'  I  'low  to 
let  'er  have  her  turn  at  hers. 

"  Wonder  ef  Miss  Cordelia  'd  mind  'er  sett'n' 
on  the  flour-bar'l  ?  She  mightn't  like  it — right 
here  in  the  house — but  I  b'lieve  ef  she  saw  me 
a-favorin'  it  she'd  let  'er  'lone  —  though  she 
mightn't.  Th'  ain't  no  flour  in  the  bar'l — they 
wasn't  when  ma  was  here.  It's  jest  filled  up  with 
pa's  ole  saddle  an'  things  yet,  the  way  she  packed 
it  ten  year  ago. 

"  Reck'n  Miss  Cordelia  'd —  I  declare,  lis'n  at 
me  a-talkin',  's  ef  I'd  clair  forgot  what  she's  jest 
said  to  me;  but  I  ain't,  nor  the  way  she  said  it, 
neither.  '  Nothin'  f  o'  you,  Bud  Zunts.'  It's  a  ring- 
in'  in  my  ears  yet.  Seem  like,  when  I  look  back, 
it's  been  said  in  my  ear  all  my  life,  'n'  I  didn't 
seem  to  hear  it.  'Nothin'  fo'  you,  Bud  Zunts.' 
Ricollec'  when  I  wanted  to  go  off  to  school — 'n' 
was  goin' — 'n'  then  pa  died,  'n'  I  couldn't  leave  ma. 
'N'  then  when  I  went  a-soldierin',  'n'  expected  to 
come  back  on  a  white  horse,  holdin'  a  Confedrit 
flag  in  one  han'  an'  knockin'  at  the  Cummins  gate 
with  the  other — 'n'  'stid  o'  that  I  come  in  a  ambu 
lance,  'th  a  s'oe  leg,  'n'  I  was  puny  an'  ragged,  'n' 
they  wasn't  no  Confedricy — 'n' — 'n'  ma  met  me 
at  the  cross-roads,  'n'  took  me  home  roun'  the 


" '  SEEM  LIKE  i  CAN'T  RICOLLEC'  TO  WIND  UP  THAT  CLOCK  ' " 


129 


other  way.  'N'  then  Miss  Cordelia  she  was  teach- 
in'  school,  'n'  ma  needed  me  constant  —  'n'  —  'n' 
then  she  got  the  pos'-office,  'n' — 'n'  ma  died — 'n'  I 
started  out  to  co't  Miss  Cordelia,  'n' — 'n'  then  she 
started  sayin'  it  to  me,  'n'  she's  said  it  to  me  ev'ry 
day  sence — *  Nothin'  fo'  you,  Bud  Zunts.'  That's 
jest  the  way  she  says  it. 

"  I  do  wush  't  the  clock  'd  tick !  I'd  wind  it  up 
an'  set  it,  ef  I  knowed  the  time.  I'd  do  it  any 
how  ef  I  could  forgit  what  ma  used  to  say  :  '  Any 
body  that  'd  set  a  clock  wrong,  'd  tell  any  other 
lie.'  Now  I  wouldn't  lie — not  ef  I  know  myself 
— but  I'd  set  that  clock  agoin',  'n'  resk  gittin'  it 
right  in  a  minute,  ef  I  didn't  know  thet  the  first 
tick  it  'd  give,  seem  like  I'd  hear  ma  start  to  scol' 
me  fur  it. 

"  I  didn't  half  try  them  shetters  o'  Miss  Corde 
lia's  to-night.  Sence  the  boys  've  started  to  pleg 
me  about  gittin'  letters,  seem  like  I  think  some 
body's  a-watchin'  me  all  the  time.  But  I  don't 
reck'n  anybody  'd  trouble  'er.  Ef — ef  I  could 
jest  say  the  first  word  to  'er,  seem  like  the  rest 
'd  come  easy.  I've  made  up  my  min'  a  hund'ed 
times,  'n'  —  'n'  then  when  she  comes  out  with 
'Nothin'  fo'  you — '  I  jest  can't  do  a  thing  but 
turn  roun'  an'  walk  out,  to  save  my  life — seem 
like." 

Miss  Cordelia  rested  very  little  during  that 
night,  waking  often  from  short  snatches  of  sleep 
haunted  by  vivid  and  harrowing  dreams.  Once 


130 


she  seemed  to  see  Bud  with  Poll's  face,  standing 
in  his  accustomed  place  and  saying  in  the  bird's 
hard  voice,"  Won't  you  marry  me,Cordelia  ?"  And 
then  when  she  started  up,  and  turning  over,  slept 
again,  it  was  only  to  see  Poll  a  woman  grown, 
dressed  in  one  of  Polly  Ann  Brooks's  wrappers, 
sitting  in  the  exchange  talking  so  loud  and  fast 
that  no  one  could  stop  him  —  and  so  the  night 
passed. 

The  bed  had  yielded  her  so  little  rest  that  she 
rose  at  the  first  gleam  of  day,  and  as  she  moved 
about  her  room  she  seemed  to  see  things  more 
clearly.  The  more  she  thought  upon  it,  the  more 
important  it  seemed  that  Poll  should  forget  the 
fateful  sentence.  She  felt  heartily  ashamed  of 
her  excitement  of  last  night. 

"  'Tis  awful  pervokin',  though,  to  have  anybody, 
even  a  human  person,  conterdic'  you  to  yore  face, 
but  I  ought  to  had  better  sense  'n  to  get  riled  at 
pore  Poll  the  way  I  did.  He  cert'n'y  is  a  mighty 
smart  bird,  Poll  is,  'n'  I'm  shore,  ef  I  half  try,  I 
can  teach  'im  the  way  I  want  to." 

Feeling  the  room  chilly,  she  bared  a  bed  of 
coals  and  threw  fresh  kindling  upon  them,  and 
when  Poll  stirred  on  his  perch  she  said,  slowly, 
not  moving  from  her  chair,  "  They's  a  love-letter 
for  you,  Bud  Zunts." 

"Nothin'  for  you  — "  responded  the  bird, 
promptly. 

Miss  Cordelia  allowed  him  to  finish  the  sen 
tence,  and  then  again,  calmly,  she  repeated  the 


131 


new  form.  Over  and  over  again,  as  fast  as  Poll 
reiterated  the  old  sentence,  Miss  Cordelia  submit 
ted  her  amendment. 

She  bore  it  well,  and,  excepting  that  two  crim 
son  disks  soon  appeared  upon  her  pallid  cheeks, 
she  gave  no  sign  of  agitation.  She  had  never  in 
her  life  undertaken  anything  with  a  firmer  resolu 
tion,  and  never  had  she  felt  so  hurried  by  the  ex 
igences  of  circumstance.  She  was  afraid  for  the 
day's  routine  to  begin,  lest  Poll  should  air  his  new 
accomplishment  for  the  entertainment  of  the  first- 
comer  into  her  door. 

When  finally  the  day  was  fully  come  she  set 
about  her  duties  with  an  abstracted  air,  reciting 
his  new  lesson  to  Poll  every  few  moments.  So 
all  during  the  day,  whenever  she  felt  sure  no  one 
was  hanging  about  the  open  door,  she  said,  or 
sometimes  even  sang,  the  simple  sentence;  and 
once,  when  a  prolonged  hum  of  voices  without 
forbade  this,  she  went  close  to  her  pupil  and  whis 
pered  it;  but  Poll  did  not  whisper  his  retort,  and 
so  she  did  not  try  this  again.  The  day  was  long, 
but  it  was  at  last  safely  passed.  Only  one  ordeal 
more,  when  Bud  should  come  in  and  wait,  and 
then,  that  over,  she  would  close  her  door  and  go 
early  to  bed. 

There  was  a  heavy  mail  to-night,  and  she  was 
kept  pretty  busy.  When  finally  the  crowd  dis 
persed,  and  ere  she  in  the  least  realized  it,  Bud 
alone  stood  without,  backing  with  his  usual  diffi 
dence  against  the  opposite  wall,  she  opened  her 


lips  to  say  the  familiar  words,  when  Poll,  close  at 
her  elbow,  happened  to  duck  his  head  and  look 
through  the  window  at  Bud  Zunts.  A  sudden 
panic  seized  poor  Miss  Cordelia.  The  bird  had 
seemed  to  challenge  her,  and  before  she  knew  it 
she  had  said,  defiantly,  "They's  a  love-letter  for 
you,  Bud  Zunts!" 

Bud  jumped  as  if  he  had  been  shot,  while  Poll, 
as  if  realizing  the  mistake,  shrieked  at  the  top  of 
his  voice,  "Nothin'  for  you,  Bud  Zunts  !" 

There  followed  now  a  critical  moment  for  all 
three,  and  Poll's  last  words  seemed  to  proclaim 
him  master  of  the  situation.  If  Miss  Cordelia 
had  not  had  a  healthy  heart,  she  would  certainly 
have  dropped  dead  then  and  there. 

Poor  Bud's  face  was  as  red  as  his  hair  as  he 
staggered  forward,  grinning  nervously.  Seeing 
his  eager  countenance  approach  the  window,  Miss 
Cordelia  stammered,  "  Th'  ain't  a  thing  for  you, 
Bud.  I  don'no'  how  on  earth  I  come  to  say  that. 
My  min' — my  min'  's  been  considerable  worreted 
to-day,  an'  I  did't  sleep  very  good  las'  night,  an' 
Poll  fretted  me  consider'ble,  an'  —  an'  I— I  —  tell 
the  truth,  I  dun'no'  what  in  the  world  put  sech  a 
word  ez  that  into  my  mouth — " 

Bud  was  as  awkward  as  she,  but  he  had  gained 
confidence  during  her  apology,  and  his  voice  was 
firm,  though  a  little  husky,  when  he  said,  leaning 
in  the  window  upon  his  folded  arms: 

"  Ef  you  want  to  know  my  thoughts  about  it, 
Miss  C'delia,  I  reck'n  God  A'mighty  put  it  there. 


133 


He  knowcd  thet  it  was  about  time  I  was  gitt'n'  a 
love-letter — ef  ever  I'm  goin'  to  git  one — an'  He 
knowed  there  wasn't  but  one  person  I'd  keer  to  git 
it  from,  an'  He  knowed  thet  you  was  that  special 
partic'lar  person,  an'  He  knowed  mo'n  thet — He 
knowed  thet  I  was  such  a  chicken-hearted  ejiot  thet 
less'n  some  sign  come  fo'  me  to  speak,  I'd  've 
come  an'  gone  out  o'  this  Simpkiusville  pos'-office 
eternal  'thout  openin'  my  head  to  you — I'm  jest 
that  big  of  a  dummy." 

He  hesitated  only  a  second,  as  if  to  gain  breath. 

"  Th'  ain't  no  love-letter  waitin'  f  o'  me  to-night, 
I  reck'n.  Even  Poll  knowed  that  much — didn't 
you,  Poll  ?  But  maybe  they's  a  leetle  bit  mo'  to 
it  thet  Poll  don't  know.  He  don't  know  thet  I 
been  a-comin'  here  ev'ry  night  fo'  three  years  an' 
six  mont's  an'  fo'  nights  to-night,  jest  a-hopin'  to 
fix  things  so's  they  would  be  a  love-letter  a-comin' 
to  me.  You  didn't  know  that,  did  you,  Poll  ?" 

During  all  this  time  Miss  Cordelia  had  stood  as 
if  petrified  before  Bud,  her  face  rigid  and  white. 

"And  you  didn't  know  it  neither,  Miss  Cor 
delia,"  he  continued,  lowering  his  tone.  "You 
didn't  know  it  neither — did  you,  honey?" 

At  this,  Miss  Cordelia,  covering  her  face  with 
her  hands,  protested  desperately. 

"  Oh,  don't,  Bud !  Don't,  I  beg  you  !  I'm  dis 
graced  enough  already,  'thout — " 

Bud  misunderstood,  and  was  wounded. 

"  Of  co'se  I'll  hursh  ef  you  say  so,"  he  said, 
sadly.  "  I  wouldn't  o'  started  ef  I'd  knew  it  'd 


134 


pleg  you  that  a-way.  I  reck'n  it  do  seem  a  sort  o' 
disgrace  for  a  nice  ejercated  lady  to  be  co'ted  by 
a  outlandish  ole  tacky  like  me — I  reck'n  'tis." 

There  were  great  tears  rolling  down  between 
Miss  Cordelia's  thin  fingers  now. 

"  'Tain't  that,  Bud,"  she  sobbed.  "  'Tain't  that, 
'n'  you  know  it  —  'n'  you  know  thet  what  I've 
done  to-night  is  jest  ez  much  ez  askin'  you  to 
speak  love  to  me — 'n'  you  know  thet  ef  I'd  o'  had 
any  manner  o'  shame,  I'd  've  died  befo'  I'd  've 
said  it — but  it  all  come  o'  me  tryin'  to  teach  Poll 
to  tell  a  story — an'  now  I'm  paid — I've  done  dis 
gusted  you  fo'ever,  'n'  I  know  it." 

"  Disgusted  who,  honey  ?" 

"  Why  of  co'se  I've  disgusted  you  the  way  I've 
acted.  After  me  standin'  up  here  an'  encour'gin' 
you  to  speak,  night  after  night  for  fo'  years,  goin' 
on,  an'  you've  not  done  it — fo'  me  to  out  an'  out 
say  love-letter  to  you.  Oh,  Bud,  what  to  say  I 
dorUt  know — but  it's  awful/" 

She  sobbed  again.  Bud  seemed  somewhat  dazed. 

"  What's  awful,  honey  ?"  he  asked,  vaguely. 
"  Th'  ain't  nothin'  awful  been  did  thet  I  can  see 
but  the  way  I've  done  acted,  like  a  plumb  ejiot, 
time  out  of  min' — but  ez  to  yo'  encour'gin  me — I 
don't  want  to  conterdic'  nothin'  you  say,  but  reely, 
less'n  you'd  o'  put  me  out,  I  don't  jest  see  ho\v 
you  could  o'  give  me  less  encour'gement — ''deed  I 
don't." 

"  'Tain't  what — what  I've  said,  Bud.  I  know  I 
ain't  said  much,  but  it's — ifs  the  way  Fve  said  it." 


135 


Bud  shifted  his  position. 

"  An'  did  you  'low  thet  you  was  a-sayin'  it 
sweet,  honey  ?  Jiminy  crackers  !  But  I  wush  't 
I'd  've  knew  it.  Seemed  to  me  jest  the  other  way 
— 'n'  all  the  way  home  every  night  yore  words  'd 
be  a-ringin'  in  my  ears — 'n' — 'n' — " 

He  chuckled  softly. 

"  — 'n'  ef  they  hadn'j  o'  been  sweetened  by  yore 
mouth,  they'd  o'  been  the  mos'  efo'scour'gin'  words 
I  ever  hear." 

Miss  Cordelia  wiped  her  eyes  slowly. 

"  Well,  Bud,"  she  replied,  evidently  somewhat 
mollified,  "  I'm  mighty  glad  you  can  say  so — but 
it  did  seem  to  me  some  nights  thet  my  voice  'd  get 
so  persuadin',  in  spite  of  all  I  could  do,  thet  ef 
they  was  anything  on  yore  min'  you'd  've  spoke  it 
out,  then  an'  there.  But,  tell  the  truth,  Bud,  it 
was  mo'n  half  worrymint  over  yore  takin'  them 
long  rides  in  the  col'  win'  an'  not  knowin'  ef  you 
wore  flannen  under — under-garments  nex'  to  yore 
— yore  skin." 

She  blushed  crimson. 

"Th'  idee  o'  you  a-frettin'  'bout  my  ole  skin!  I 
do  declare  I've  growed  a  inch  in  the  las'  minute — 
I  know  I  have." 

He  chuckled  again. 

"An'  you  do  wear  'em,  do  you,  Bud  —  good 
warm  ones  ?" 

He  drew  his  flowered  kerchief  from  his  deep 
pocket  and  wiped  his  eyes,  as  betwixt  laughter 
and  tears  he  answered  her. 


136 


"Th'  idee  o'  her  a-keerin'!"  he  began.  "  Yas, 
honey,  co'se  I  wear  'em — good  thick  ones,  all  ma- 
knit;  'n'  I've  got  a  pile  o'  new  ones  tall  ez  this 
winder  thet  she's  stacked  away  for  me — some  knit 
narrer  and  some  wide,  so's  ef  I  growed  ole  like 
either  side  o'  the  fambly,  fat  or  slim,  I'd  never  go 
col' — nor  tight  nor  bulgy  neither.  Pore  ma!  She 
never  forgot  nothin'  in  her  life,  I  don't  reck'n. 
'N'  I've  got  perserves  enough  to  do  us  too,  honey," 
he  resumed,  after  a  pause.  "  I  ain't  never  opened 
no  perserves  sence  she's  went.  I've  been  a-savin' 
'em  for  whenever  you'd  —  but  never  min',  I  see 
you're  gitt'n'  plegged  agin,  'n'  I  ain't  a-goin'  to 
say  another  word  to-nigh t— not  a  one;  'n'  I'm  a- 
goin'  out  'n'  see  ef  yore  winder's  bolted  good,  'n' 
then  I'm  a-goin'  to  lock  the  gate  'n'  go  home,  'n' 
when  I  get  there  I'm  a-goin'  to  write  you  the 
neares'  to  a  love-letter  thet  I  can  write,  'n'  I'm  a- 
goin'  to  mail  it  in  the  mornin',  an'  I'm  a-comin'  for 
my  answer  to-morrer  'bout  this  time — you  hear  ?" 

Miss  Cordelia  colored  afresh. 

"But,"  continued  Bud,  "  they's  jest  one  thing  I 
do  ast  you  to  do  to-night  bef  o'  I  go.  Shake  han's 
with  me,  won't  you,  thoo  the  winder,  jest  ez  lovin' 
ez  you  know  how  ?" 

If  Miss  Cordelia's  usually  pale  face  was  already 
aglow,  it  flamed  a  brilliant  scarlet  now  as  she 
timorously  presented  her  thin  hand.  Bud  took  it 
in  both  his  and  held  it  tight  for  one  brief  mo 
ment  ;  then,  without  a  word,  he  turned  and  walked 
out. 


137 


He  found  it  necessary  to  wipe  his  eyes  before 
lie  mounted  his  wagon  seat,  and  at  intervals  all 
along  the  road  a  tear  rolled  down  his  cheek, 
though  it  usually  found  him  chuckling. 

"  I  do  declare,"  he  was  saying  when  he  passed 
the  first  mile-stake,  "  seem  like  I  c'n  see  'er  han' 
yet,  the  way  she  put  it  out  to  me  so  modes'  an' 
shy,  'th  all  the  purty  blue  veins  in  it  jest  like  the 
rivers  on  a  geogerphy  map.  How  I  have  studied 
'em  these  fo'  years  !  I  could  see  'er  ban's,  'n'  she 
couldn't  see  me.  'N'  I  know  every  vein  on  'em, 
'n'  jest  where  the  two  little  moles  set  like  little 
towns  on  the  aidge  o'  the  rivers.  'N'  to  think  o' 
me  a-holdin'  'em!  Th'  ain't  a  bit  o'  use  in  putt'n' 
it  off,  'n'  I'm  a-goin'  to  say  so  in  the  letter.  She 
won't  need  mo'  clo'es  'n  she's  got.  She  might 
want  to  sew  a  little  trimmin'  roun' — I  think  a 
little  lace  or  ruffle  'd  look  mighty  purty.  Ma 
never  had  no  trimmin'  on  none  o'  her  inside  things, 
'n'  I  ricollec'  I  use  ter  wush  't  she  would.  She 
could  sew  on  lace  afterwards  jest  as  well,  an1  better. 
That  pos'-office  mus'  hinder  'er  consider'ble. 

"  I'm  glad  I  saved  all  the  perserves,  'n'  never 
opened  none.  That's  one  thing  I  do  believe  ma'd 
praise  me  for.  'Cept'n'  thet  I've  jest  put  off 
speakin'  f'om  day  to  day,  though  I  don't  reck'n 
I  could  o'  held  out — 'n'  they  all  put  up  in  thick 
syrup,  too,  'n'  ef  they's  one  thing  I  do  love — 

"  I  vow  I  don't  see  how  I'm  a-goin'  to  stan'  it 
'n'  not  tell  nobody  all  day  to-morrer — I  don't 
reely.  B'lieve  I'll  git  out  an'  walk  'longside  o' 


138 


Bute  V  Fairy.  Seem  like  I  ought  to  'umble  ray- 
self  some  way,  God's  been  so  good  to  me." 

Bud  actually  descended  from  his  seat  and 
trudged  along  beside  the  oxen,  talking  to  them  as 
he  went  ; 

"Nemmine,  Bute  'n'  Fairy,  we  ain't  a-goin'  to 
keep  up  these  night  trips  much  longer — no,  we 
ain't;  'n'  Mis'  Brooks  '11  have  to  hunt  up  some 
new  joke  in  place  o'  me  an'  my  fiery  untamed 
steeds  a-passin'  her  house  every  night — yas,  she 
will.  I  have  knew  tongues  in  my  day  thet  was 
purty  fiery  'n'  untamed  thet  'd  do  well  to  take  a 
lesson  f 'om  a  stiddy-goin'  ox  thet  min's  'is  own 
business ;  but  'twouldn'fr  do  to  say  so,  I  reck'n, 
bein'  ez  they  was  ladies'  tongues,  mos'ly.  But 
we  ain't  a-goin'  to  take  a-many  mo'  o'  these  trips, 
I  say,  'cause  we  goin'  to  fetch  the  " — he  giggled 
— "we  goin'  to  fetch  the  pos'-office  out  home — 
that's  what  we  goin'  to  do— so's  we  won't  have  to 
go  to  it;  't  least,  we'll  fetch  all  of  it  thet's  any 
good;  the  letter  part  can  stay  where  'tis." 

No  one  will  ever  know  what  was  written  in  the 
letter  that  Bud  spent  that  entire  night  in  shaping, 
and  over  the  difficulties  of  which  he  by  turns 
groaned,  chuckled,  bit  his  lip,  and  walked  the 
floor;  but  when  it  was  finally  written,  it  was  a 
living,  breathing  love-letter,  which,  if  innocent  of 
protestation  or  impassioned  avowal,  was  redolent 
of  the  timid  heartrblossoms  of  a  long  life  of  un 
spoken  devotion. 


139 


Bud  knew  about  capital  I's,  and  he  knew  that 
honey  was  a  common  noun  to  be  spelled  with  a 
small  h,  but  how  can  one  remember  all  these 
trifles  when  one  is  in  love?  Such  substitution  of 
values  is  not  infrequent,  we  are  told,  in  Cupid's 
repository  of  authentic  MSS. 

No  one  will  ever  know  what  was  written  in  the 
perfumed  pink-papered  answer  that  Bud  received 
on  the  second  day  afterwards.  Yes,  it  is  true, 
Miss  Cordelia  did  her  part  with  all  the  dainty  ac 
companiments  she  had  learned  through  years  of 
close  observation.  Only  of  the  inside  of  love-let 
ters  was  she  ignorant;  and  so,  guided  simply  by 
the  promptings  of  her  maiden  heart,  she  wrote 
the  womanly  and  brief  epistle  which,  Bud  declared 
to  her  afterwards,  "knocked  off  twenty  years  of 
his  age  at  a  single  pop." 

The  Cummins- Zunts  courtship,  albeit  it  was  a 
brief  one,  must  have  been  carried  on  with  excep 
tional  discretion,  as,  though  Bud  had  given  abun 
dant  evidence  of  his  approaching  nuptials  in 
sundry  improvements  about  his  home,  no  one  sus 
pected  the  future  bride  in  Miss  Cordelia,  until  she 
actually  went  over  and  asked  Miss  Sophia  Falena 
Simpkins  to  "  stand  up  "  with  her.  Mrs.  Brooks 
never  did  recover  from  her  consternation  over  the 
affair,  nor  did  she  ever  feel  entirely  sure  that  Miss 
Cordelia  quite  forgave  her  remark  about  "ole 
folks  a-co'tin'." 

The  Zunts  cottage  sits  like  a  smiling  expression 


140 


of  domestic  bliss  by  the  road- side.  The  cedars 
that  stand  about  its  front  yard,  and  which  had 
grown  riotous  and  disorderly  in  the  interregnum, 
hold  up  shapely  tapering  heads  that  defer  in  the 
soft  breeze  to  their  new  mistress  —  like  well- 
ordered  ladies-in-waiting  —  while  the  pair  guard 
ing  the  front  gate  have  fallen  upon  one  another's 
shoulders  for  the  shaping  of  a  triumphal  arch 
through  which  in  her  comings  and  goings  she  may 
pass. 

There  are  flowering  plants  in  season  standing 
in  tins  and  earthen  pots  about  the  little  porch, 
where  two  rocking-chairs  are  generally  to  be  seen 
swaying,  very  close  together. 

In  the  late  evenings,  while  his  wife  sets  her 
bread  to  rise,  or,  rocking  softly,  plies  her  crochet 
needle,  Bud  sits  with  his  pipe  musing  in  the  chair 
opposite,  but  he  seldom  speaks,  having  said  all  he 
had  to  say.  But  his  eyes  beam  with  a  peaceful 
light  as  he  chuckles  to  himself ;  and  when  she 
asks,  "  What  you  so  tickled  at,  Bud  ?"  he  replies, 
"I  was  jest  a-thinkin'";  or  sometimes  he  adds, 
"  I  was  jest  a-thinkin'  this,  thet  *  a  ole  fool  is  the 
wors'  kind  o'  fool.'  "  And  then  he  rises,  and,  cross 
ing  over,  kisses  her,  and  quietly  goes  back  to  his 
seat ;  or  perhaps  he  stops  to  pull  down  the  lamp 
shade  a  little,  so  that  it  may  not  shine  in  Domi- 
nicker's  eyes,  for  the  old  hen  still  pursues  her  ma 
ternal  vocation  unmolested  on  the  flour -barrel, 
and  is  in  no  wise  disquieted  because  her  indulgent 
mistress  has  insinuated  the  braided  rim  of  an  old 


141 


basket  scoured  to  whiteness,  around  the  edges  of 
her  nest,  while  her  pedestal  is  arrayed  in  a  gath- 
ei'ed  flounce  of  Turkey-red  calico. 

It  is  quite  immaterial  to  her  virtuous  ladyship 
that  she  has  come  to  be  regarded,  as  she  sits  thus 
aesthetically  enthroned,  as  an  article  of  virtu  quite 
worthy  its  place  on  the  shining  floor  of  a  room 
grown  beautiful  through  a  woman's  touch. 

Poll  drowses  blinking  on  his  perch  until  he  falls 
nearly  asleep,  and  when  the  clock  strikes,  he  starts 
up  from  a  nod  like  a  child,  and  says :  "  Good 
night,  Cordelia!".  .  .  "Happy  dreams!". .  .  "God 
bless  you!".  .  .  pausing  after  each  salutation  until 
he  is  satisfactorily  answered,  and  then  he  adds, 
"They's  a  love-letter  for  you,  Bud  Zunts." 

And  Bud  answers,  "  I  know  it,  Poll,  'n'  I've 
done  taken  it  out  o'  the  pos'-office,  too." 

And  then  Poll,  satisfied,  goes  to  sleep. 


"CHRISTMAS   GEESE" 


"CHRISTMAS    GEESE" 

"  EP  Lucetty  an'  Dr.  Jim  wasn't  both  so  pig- 
beaded  an'  set,  tbey  might  jest  ez  well  o'  been 
married  ten  year  ago  ez  not,"  said  Mr.  Brantley, 
looking  over  his  spectacles  at  his  wife. 

Mrs.  Brantley  was  seeding  raisins,  and  her  hus 
band  liked  to  sit  and  watch  the  agile  movement 
of  her  fingers  as  she  deftly  extracted  the  pits  from 
the  crinkled  skins. 

"  Yas,"  she  replied,  "you  better  say  fifteen  year 
ago,  an'  I  s'pose  they'll  set  up  there  stiff  ez  ram 
rods  nex'  door  to  one  another  for  another  fifteen 
year — tell  they  both  dry  up  of  ol'  age  an1  contra 
riness.  I  dunno  which  a  one  I  want  mos'  to 
whup.  Sometimes,  when  Dr.  Jim  comes  in  to 
'tend  on  the  children  when  they're  sick,  an'  I  see 
how  kin'-hearted  an'  good  he  is,  I  seem  to  know 
it's  Lucetty's  fault,  an'  then  ag'in,  I'll  maybe  run 
agin  some  of  her  Christian  ac's — like  her  'doptin' 
that  po'  fitty  Joe  when  his  ma  died,  an'  takin'  keer 
of  'im  clear  through  his  epilepsy  tell  he  passed 
away — an'  then  I  feel  shore  it  must  be  Dr.  Jim's 
fault  thet  they  ain't  married  ;  not  thet  he  bein'  a 
good  doctor  an'  she  a  charitable  Christian  'd  go  to 
show  thet  either  one  was  gifted  at  love-makin', 


146 


which  I  reck'n  they  ain't.  It's  a  mighty  strange 
case,  to  my  mind.  Everybody  knows  thet  neither 
one  of  'em  'ain't  never  looked  at  nobody  else  sence 
they've  been  two  barefeeted  children  playin'  in 
the  creek  together." 

"They're  jest  'bout  of  an  age,  ain't  they? 
Look  out,  wife;  you  dropped  one  'thout  takin'  no 
seed  out." 

"  Th'  wasn't  no  seed  in  that  'n — I  jest  broke  the 
skin  so's  'twouldn't  plump  out  in  the  puddin'  like 
a  seedless.  I  do  hate  them  seedless  raisins.  They 
get  in  a  person's  mouth  like  sort  o'  roly-polies,  an' 
give  a  nervous  person  the  fidgets.  Yas,  Lucetty 
an'  Jim  're  of  an  age,  lackin'  a  week — an'  she's  got 
it,  too.  They'll  both  be  forty  'twix'  Christmas 
an'  New-Year  ;  an'  to  think  o'  them  a-holdin'  off 
from  one  another  all  these  years  jest  on  ac 
count  o'  family  nonsense  !  It's  jest  simple  re- 
dic'lous !" 

"  Don't  you  reck'n  ef  either  one  was  brought  to 
death's  do',  they  might  give  in  ?" 

"  Ef  they  thought  they  was  goin'  to  die,  like  ez 
not  they  would.  The  only  reason  they  don't  mar 
ry,  so  the  story  goes,  is  thet  neither  one  is  willin' 
to  live  in  the  other  one's  house.  Dr.  Jim  he  says, 
't  least  so  they  tell  me,  thet  it's  a  wife's  place  to 
come  to  her  husban's  home  ;  an'  she  'lows  thet 
'fore  she'd  go  an'  live  in  ol'  Judge  Morgan's  house, 
after  all  thet's  passed  between  the  ol'  folks,  she'll 
live  an'  die  Lucetty  Ann  Jones." 

"I  declare,  wife,  you  dropped  in  a  seed  that 


147 


time.  .So  it  is — caked  sugar.  Reck'n  yoi'e  fingers 
're  better  'n  my  eyes,  anyway.  Seem  to  me  that 
W  be  easy  got  over.  Why  don't  he  build  'er  a 
house  ?" 

"  He's  offered  to,  a  thousan'  times,  but  she  holds 
out  for  'im  to  build  it  on  her  Ian',  an'  that  he  won't 
— 't  least  that's  what  they  say — an'  so  there  they 
set.  They  say  the  subjec'  'ain't  been  mentioned 
between  'em  now  for  ino'n  five  year.  He  jest 
drops  in  to  see  'er,  an'  talks  off-han',  reg'lar  twice-t 
a  week,  less'n  she's  sick  —  an'  then,  of  co'se,  he 
stops  t'  inquire  every  day;  but  you  know  she  has 
Dr.  Beasley  for  her  doctor." 

"  Well,  I  s'pose  that's  nachel  enough.  No  girl, 
ol'  or  young,  wants  her  beau  for  her  doctor. 
Somehow  pills  an'  plasters  an'  love  don't  seem  to 
go  together.  A  couple  has  to  be  spoke  over  by  a 
minister  o'  the  gospel  befo'  sech  ez  that  an'  love 
'11  seem  to  gee." 

"  Yas,  an'  even  then  it's  tryiri' — at  first.  It  was 
bad  enough  for  Lucetty  to  hoi'  out  the  way  she 
done  while  she  was  well  an'  had  a-plenty  o'  money 
— but  now,  sence  that  no-'count  brother  o'  hers 
has  done  gone  an'  married  an'  took  the  lion  sheer 
of  everything,  an'  she's  started  to  be  laid  up  with 
first  one  thing  an'  then  another,  it  does  seem,  with 
a  good  man  within  a  stone's  throw  of  her,  able  an' 
anxious  to  take  keer  of  her,  which  actions  speaks 
louder  than  words,  an'  everybody  knows  he  is,  it 
does  seem  like  a  pity.  Tell  the  truth,  in  these 
tight  days  o'  men -famine,  sence  the  wah,  it's  a 


148 


pity  for  one  good  man  to  go  to  loss — that's  how 
I  look  at  it." 

"  An'  you  think  a  heap  o'  both  of  'em,  I  reck'n, 
wife,  don't  you  ?" 

"Well,  I  should  say  I  do,  'r  I  wouldn't  be 
sett'n'  up  here  seedin'  raisins  like  I  am  jest  be 
cause  the  Joneses  seem  to  think  it  'd  be  a  sacer'lige 
to  eat  a  Christmas  dinner  'thout  a  plum-puddin'. 
They  don't  neither  one  know  I've  ast  the  other 
one  to  dinner.  I  begged  'em  sep'rate  not  to  men 
tion  to  anybody  bein'  invited  —  fact,  I  told  'em 
both  thet  they  wasrft  invited — they're  jest  expect 
ed  to  drop  in.  I've  got  a  good  min'  to  pleg  'em 
right  out  at  the  dinner-table  'bout  the  way  they're 
actin'  like  plumb  geese.  I've  got  a  roas'  goose 
for  dinner,  an'  I  wish  't  I  could  think  up  some 
good  joke  thet  'd  sort  o'  throw  them  in  with  it  in 
some  way — I'd  do  it  in  a  minute." 

"  I  declare,  wife,  you're  too  funny  to  live.  But, 
shore  'nough,  how'd  it  do  to  ask  'em,  jest  off-han', 
like  ez  ef  you  didn't  to  say  mean  it,  what  cotation 
it  'd  be  suitable  for  Miss  Lucetty  an'  the  doctor 
to  ask  o'  the  goose  ;  and  when  they  all  git  tired 
guessin' — of  co'se  nobody  wouldn't  guess  the  an 
swer — why,  you  could  jest — well — I  reck'n  you'd 
jest  have  to  refuse  to  tell  'em  what." 

"  I  can't  jest  see  where  the  fun  'd  come  in,  hard- 
ly — maybe  I'm  slow,  but — " 

"  Well,  it  'd  be  some  fun  jest  a-mentionin'  them 
in  with  the  goose — that  'd  sort  o'  make  a  laugh, 
wouldn't  it  ?" 


149 


"But  they'd  have  to  be  some  joke  at  the  end 
of  it,  William  ?" 

"So  they  is;  but  it's  like  the  popper  at  the  end 
of  a  whup — you  have  to  snap  it  keerful.  I  reck'n 
when  they  all  git  up  from  the  table  it  wouldn't 
hurt  for  you  to  sort  o'  whisper  it  to  'em  both  to 
gether,  would  it  ?" 

"  I  declare,  William,  I  don't  know.  What  is  it 
you're  drivin'  at  ?" 

"Well,  how'd  it  do  to  sort  o'  hint  thet  they 
might  say  to  the  goose,  'When  will  we  three 
meet  again  ?'  jest  like  they  say  about  donkeys  ?" 

Mrs.  Brantley  laughed. 

"  It  '11  jest  do  'em  up  brown — that's  what  it  '11 
do.  An'  ef  they  act  any  way  stupid  about  it,  I'll 
jest  pitch  into  'em  an'  explain  the  p'int  —  don't 
reck'n  they'll  ast  many  questions,  though.  I'd 
o'  argued  with  Lucetty  long  ago,  but  I  knew 
'twouldn't  be  no  use.  She'd  begin  to  cote  Script 
ure  to  me.  I  never  could  argy  with  Scripture- 
cotin'  persons.  Somehow  I  feel  like  ez  ef  I  was 
sassin'  the  Lord  back,  an'  I  can't  do  it." 

"  Seem  to  me  you  could  cote  back,  wife.  You 
know  a-plenty,  I'm  shore." 

"  Yas,  I  know  enough,  but  I  might  cote  it  amiss 
— like  many  a  well-meanin'  person  does.  Some  o' 
the  meanest  things  I've  ever  heerd  said  has  been 
twisted  Scripture-cotin'.  Sence  the  ol'  boy  made 
sech  a  bad  out  at  it  in  the  Bible,  I  'low  to  'ply 
mine  to  myself,  an'  not  dole  it  out  to  my  neigh 
bors — that  is,  not  in  jedgment.  Of  co'se  when  a 


150 


person  has  a  chance  to  speak  it  for  comfort,  that's 
different.  But  I'd  give  a  heap  to  see  them  two 
married  an'  settled.  What  she's  to  do  I  don't 
know,  an'  nobody  can't  give  'er  nothin',  she's  that 
proud.  They  say  Dr.  Jim  has  dumped  wood  on  the 
back  end  of  her  wood-pile  at  night  tell  it's  graj'elly 
moved  from  close  to  the  kitchen-do'  clean  down 
mos'  to  the  cow-lot,  an'  she  don't  seem  to  notice  it. 
Of  co'se  she  always  burns  it  from  the  front  side. 
An'  with  it  all  she's  as  techy  an'  independent  ez 
the  next  one.  In  askin'  'er  to  dinner  I  had  to  be 
jest  ez  keerful  to  say  we  wanted  'er  for  comp'ny. 
Ef  I'd  o'  once  even  hinted  at  her  enjoyin'  the  din 
ner  she  never  would  o'  come  in  the  world." 

While  she  was  being  thus  amiably  discussed 
by  her  prospective  host  and  hostess,  Miss  Lucetta 
sat  in  her  little  parlor  entertaining  the  gentleman 
in  question.  There  had  been  a  dearth  of  conver 
sation  between  them  this  evening.  Possibly  the 
recurring  anniversary  brought  to  both,  in  a  vague, 
unexplained  way,  a  fresh  consciousness  of  their 
somewhat  strained  relations.  A  long  -  confessed 
"  understanding  "  between  two  persons  is  apt  to 
feel  a  sort  of  stress  on  occasions  which  mark  the 
passage  of  time.  During  all  his  visit  to-night 
Dr.  Jim  felt  the  restraint  always  following  upon 
the  imposed  avoidance  of  certain  subjects. 

"  It's  always  a  pleasure  to  set  and  watch  that 
chimbly  draw,"  he  remarked,  late  in  the  evening, 
after  a  prolonged  pause.  "  Somehow  the  blazes 
seem  to  roah  up  it  so  cheerful." 


151 


"  Yas — 'tain't  never  smoked  but  once-t — an'  that 
was  fault  o'  the  wood.  Some  wood  seem  to  be 
grudge  its  own  smoke,  don't  make  no  diff'rence 
what  you  do  with  it." 

"  It's  ino'  like  to  be  fault  o'  the  weather  when 
the  smoke  do  that  a-way.  Take  a  good  chimbly 
an'  good  wood,  an'  a  ill  wind  '11  make  'em  quare, 
spite  of  everything.  My  chimbly  at  home  is 
mighty  fastidious  an'  notionate.  It  '11  draw  cer 
tain  wood  -  smokes  in  certain  winds,  an'  it  'ain't 
got  no  mo'  conscience  about  switchin'  around  an' 
vomitin'  smoke  it's  done  swallered  'n  nothin'.  I 
often  thought  I'd  have  it  fixed,  but  seem  like  ef 
I  didn't  have  that  to  bother  about  I'd  have  some- 
thin'  else,  so  I  thought  I'd  let  my  troubles  begin 
in  smoke,  anyway.  I  on'y  wish  't  they  ended  that 
a-way." 

He  sighed. 

"  I  hate  to  hear  you  talk  so  down-hearted,  Jim. 
Reck'n  you  an'  I  've  both  got  a  heap  to  be  thank 
ful  for,  'f  we  only  thought  about  it.  Any  man 
thet  can  raise  the  sick  the  way  you  are  providen 
tially  enabled  to  do  ought  to  be  happy." 

"  Well,  reck'n  I'm  'bout  ez  happy  ez  anybody 
in  my  conditions  could  be  well.  I  never  worry 
about  that.  The  thing  I  do  fret  over  is  not  bein' 
able  to  make  them  I'd  like  to  make  happy  ez  happy 
ez  seem  like  I  could  make  'em — ef  they'd  let  me." 

Miss  Lucetta  did  not  answer.  She  stirred  the 
fire  instead. 

"  It  does  me  good  to  see  yo'  arm  out  o'  the  sling 


152 


ag'in,"  her  guest  continued.  "  Don't  reck'n  it  ever 
aches  any  mo',  does  it?" 

"  Thet's  jest  about  all  it  does  do  out  o'  the  way. 
It  jest  sort  o'  has  the  dead  ache  in  it  half  o'  the 
time.  Co'se  the  jumpin'  pain  is  all  gone  out  o' 
my  thumb,  an'  it's  all  healed  up." 

"I'd  'vise  you  to  use  it  mighty  keerful  for 
a  while.  Treat  that  hand  like  company  ;  give 
it  a  easy  time,  an'  don't  ast  no  favors  of  it.  I 
s'pose  ol'  Aunt  Judy  waits  on  you  good,  don't 
she  ?  Better  let  'er  do  all  the  lif  tin'  an'  carry  in' 
for  you  tell  that  arm  forgets  all  about  how  it 
feels.  She  tends  on  you  good,  don't  she — Aunt 
Judy?" 

"She  does  everything  I  ast  her  to  do — good  ez 
she  can." 

"  That's  right.  I'm  glad  to  know  it.  It's  bad 
enough  for  you  to  be  a-livin'  here  in  this  lonesome, 
crepe  -  myrtle  grove  by  y oreself ,  with  no  comp'ny 
but  a  half -blind  ol'  nigger  an'  a  deef  dog,  not  to 
mention  a  lapwing  mockin' -  bird,  an'  I'm  glad  to 
know  the  ol'  nigger  does  her  part  by  you.  I've 
missed  yore  piano-playin'  awful  sence  you've  had 
the  felon.  Many's  the  night  I've  sat  in  my  study 
there  at  home  an'  caught  them  purty  slidin'-down 
notes  of  the  'Maiden's  Prayer'  when  the  wind 
come  from  this  way,  an'  it  has  eased  my  mind 
consider'ble.  I  know  when  you  play  that  a-way 
you  ain't  frettin'.  An'  of  co'se  when  yoiCre  sat 
isfied  it  'd — it  'd  be  mighty  ungrateful  for  me  not 
to  be,"  he  sighed.  "  But  they's  some  mysteries 


153 


in  this  worl'  thet  I  don't  reck'n  '11  be  made  plain 
this  side  o'  the  gulch." 

"  Yas — that's  jest  what  I  often  say  to  myself. 
Here  we  see  ez  men,  darkly,  but  there  we  shall 
see  face  to  face." 

"  But  it  does  seem — don't  it  never  seem  to  you 
thet  maybe  ef  some  o'  the  mists  was  cleared  away 
we  might  have  the  pleasure  o'  seein'  mo'  clear  in 
this  worl'  ?  Now  of  co'se  I'm  not  a-goin'  to  tech 
on  fo'bidden  things  to-night,  no  mo'n  to  say  thet 
ef  I  was  to  express  myself  ez  I've  did  a  many  a 
time,  it  'd  all  be  jest  ez  true  ez  it  ever  was.  I 
could  shut  my  eyes  an' — not  insinuatin'  thet  I'd 
like  to  do  it,  of  co'se — but  I  could  shet  my  eyes 
an'  take  a  holt  of  yore  han'  an'  tell  you  jest  them 
same  identical  facts  thet  I  related  to  you  a  Christ 
mas  Eve  seventeen  year  ago,  a-walkin'  home  from 
Mrs.  Gibbs's  quiltin'  party ;  an'  they'd  be  jest  ez 
precious  to  my  soul  and  jest  ez  true  ez  they  ever 
was — which  I  have  reminded  you,  ez  delicate  ez  I 
could,  every  Christmas  sence — 'thout  breakin'  my 
promise  not  to  pester  you  no  mo'  about  it,  either." 

Miss  Lucetta  looked  steadily  into  the  fire.  Pres 
ently  she  said  :  "  Well,  Jim,  I  don't  say  you've 
broke  your  promise ;  an'  ef  you  'ain't,  th'  ain't 
nothin'  for  me  to  say,  ez  I  can  see.  Reck'n  we 
both  been  raised  to  know  our  own  minds,  an'  we 
ain't  weather-vanes,  neither  one  of  us." 

"  No,  I  reck'n  we  ain't,"  said  he,  rising  from 
his  chair.  "Sometimes  I  wish-t  we  was — either 
one  of  us,  or  both.  I'm  goin'  to  ride  over  to  ole 


154 


Judge  Jarvis's,  an'  see  how  he  is,  jest  about  day 
light  to-morrer,  an'  reck'n  you  won't  mind  ef  I  hol 
ler  '  Merry  Christmas '  to  you,  will  you  ?  Reck'n 
anybody  could  say  that  to  you,  couldn't  they?" 

"  Th'  ain't  nobody  I'd  ruther  hear  sayin'  it, 
Jim,  an'  you  know  it,"  she  replied,  extending  her 
hand.  "An'  I  say  'God  bless  you!'  to-night, 
too,  an'  look  down  in  mercy  upon  us  both.  Good 
night,  Jim." 

Dr.  Jim  did  not  answer,  but,  dropping  her  hand 
suddenly,  turned  away.  Closing  the  door,  Miss 
Lucetta  stood  watching  his  retreating  figure  from 
the  window  as  he  crossed  the  moonlit  yard,  until 
he  mounted  his  horse  at  the  gate  and  disappeared. 
The  wind  blew  from  the  direction  of  the  Morgan 
place,  and  for  a  long  time  she  heard  the  tramp 
of  the  horse's  feet  upon  the  hard  road.  When 
the  sound  died  in  the  distance  she  turned  and 
went  back  to  the  fire. 

"  I  do  wish-t  Jim  wouldn't  fret  about  me  the 
way  he  does,"  she  said,  presently,  with  a  sigh.  It 
seems  to  fret  him  for  me  to  trus'  myself  right 
here  where  I  been  born  an'  raised,  jest  because  ol' 
Aunt  Judy  is  half  blind  and  half  foolish  an'  Rover 
is  deef.  That  comes  o'  not  havin'  proper  faith. 
Ef  I  didn't  have  the  religious  faith  I've  got,  may 
be  I  might  be  lonesome  or  skeered.  I  don't  say 
but  I  am  lonesome  sometimes,  an',  tell  the  truth, 
to-night's  one  o'  the  times.  Seem  like  sence  my 
bone  felon's  stopped  painin'  me  I  feel  mo'  lone 
some  'n  what  I  did  when  I  walked  the  flo'  all 


YOU   WON'T  MIND  KF  I  HOLLER  "MERRY   CHRISTMAS"  TO  YOU?'" 


155 

night  with  it.  What  short-sighted  mortals  we 
are,  anyhow  !  Many's  the  lonely  hour  a  good 
throbbin'  pain  saves  us,  ef  we  only  knew  it.  Still, 
turn  about's  fair  play,  an'  I'm  jest  ez  pleased  to 
rest  off  from  my  bone  felon  an'  take  a  turn  at 
lonesomeness  for  a  spell.  I'm  mighty  proud  this 
thumb  j'int  didn't  shed.  Somehow  nobody  don't 
seem  to  have  proper  respec'  for  their  thumbs, 
nohow,  tell  somethin'  goes  wrong  with  one  of 
'em,  an'  they  §ee  what  a  gift  for  discipline  lays 
in  the  little  things  ef  they  once-t  get  their  backs 
up.  To  look  at  this  little  underhanded,  hump- 
shouldered  stub,  a  person  couldn't  believe  it  could 
strike  the  terror  it  did.  They  wasn't  a  atom  in 
me  for  two  solid  weeks  thet  didn't  pay  its  respec's 
to  that  thumb.  But  I'm  mighty  glad  to  've  had 
that  bone  sound.  I'd  hate  to  be  in  any  part 
mislaid  at  the  resurrection.  Seem  like  it's  bad 
enough  for  sech  ez  have  been  called  on  to  ex 
plode,  or  to  be  exploded,  to  lay  around  in  all 
p'ints  o'  the  compass,  much  less  'n  for  a  quiet, 
home-stayin'  somebody  like  me  to  lose  the  run 
o'  my  bones.  They  wouldn't  be  no  earthly  ex 
cuse  for  it,  an'  ef  I  was  a  bone  short,  I'd  feel  that 
I  oughtn't  never  to  let  it  get  away  from  me,  less'n 
somethin'  might  happen  'fore  I'd  get  it  back.  I 
spent  three  whole  nights  tryin'  to  Revise  a  place 
to  keep  that  thumb  bone  about  me  in  case  it  was 
to  shed,  an'  I  never  did  hit  on  any  place  that  was 
cheerful  an'  safe.  Pore  doctors !  They  both 
think  they  saved  it,  but  they  little  know.  Dr. 


156 


Beasley  he  lanced  it,  an'  Jim  he  consulted  with 
him  an'  poulticed  it,  an'  not  a  thing  eased  it  rao'n 
water  on  a  duck's  back  tell — well,  tell  I  come  to 
my  senses.  It  was  mighty  hard  for  me  to  prom 
ise  the  Lord  I  wouldn't  play  dance  music  for  par 
ties  any  mo',  and  I  wrastled  purty  severe  with 
the  sperit  'fore  I  give  in.  An'  ez  long  as  I  helt 
out  that  bone  kep'  loosened  up,  ready  to  drop 
out,  an'  the  night  I  give  my  word  it  settled  back 
in  its  socket,  an'  there  it's  stayed.  That  shows 
the  beauty  of  divine  justice.  The  good  Lord  lets 
me  have  the  comfort  an'  the  credit  of  lettin'  go 
of  sin,  when,  to  look  at  it  straight,  they  wasn't 
nothin'  else  for  me  to  do.  The  only  question  was 
would  I  stop  playin'  party  music  with  or  without 
my  thumb  bone — couldn't  play  it  'thout  it — an' 
I  had  the  sense  to  give  in  in  time.  Of  co'se,  not 
playin'  at  parties  '11  be  a  heavy  loss  to  me.  Two 
dollars  and  a  half  every  time  come  in  mighty 
handy  ;  I  don't  reck'n  anybody  knew  jest  how 
handy  it  did  come  in. 

"  Reck'n  ef  the  worst  come  to  the  worst — well, 
I  dunno  what  I  would  do.  They's  jest  one  per 
son  I'd  hate  worst  in  the  worl'  to  know  I'm  pressed^ 
an'  that's  Dr.  Jim.  He  can  fret  ez  much  ez  he's 
a  mind  to  about  me  livin'  by  myself,  'cause  he 
knows  I've  laid  off  to  do  it,  but  I  wouldn't  have 
him  to  s'picion  thet  I  'ain't  tasted  wheat  bread  f  o' 
mo'n  a  month — not  for  a  purty.  It  kind  o'  struck 
me  ez  funny  for  him  to  fetch  me  that  loaf  o'  stale 
bread  for  my  poultice — like  ez  ef  he  knew  I  didn't 


157 


have  any — but  of  co'se  when  he  said  thet  it  'd 
make  a  better  poultice  'n  any  fresh  bread  I  might 
have,  I  couldn't  take  exceptions.  So  I  jest  used 
'bout  a  inch  or  so  off  o'  the  loaf,  an'  sent  the  res' 
back.  It's  jest  ez  well  to  let  him  see  thet  in  as- 
rnuch  ez  he's  a  neighbor  an'  a  doctor,  an'  of  co'se 
a  good  friend,  I'm  perfectly  willin'  he  should 
bread  my  hand — but  he  can't  han'  me  bread,  least 
ways  not  bread  leavened  in  ol'  Dr.  John  Morgan's 
kitchen. 

"It's  a  hard  thing  for  folks  to  have  to  live  out 
other  people's  fusses,  an'  keep  on  the  right  side  of 
partitions  they  never  made,  but  so  it  is — an'  sence 
they  are  made,  an'  I  know  who  made  'em  an'  how 
— well !  Jim  an'  me  're  landed  purty  high  an' 
dry  on  each  side  of  a  family  row,  an'  pa's  grave  is 
on  this  side— an'  here  I  intend  to  stay — less'n,  of 
co'se,  anything  was  to  happen  to  Jim,  an'  they 
couldn't  move  'im — and  sometimes — reck'n  I'm  a 
awful  sinner,  but  I  do  wish  't — 

"  Wonder  what  that  was  moved  !  I  don't  see 
why  'tis,  but  I'm  jest  ez  skeery  to-night !  Ef  that 
wasn't  a  step,  it  sounded  mightily  like  it.  I  do 
wish  't  Rover  wasn't  deef  ;  but  of  co'se,  ef  he'd  o' 
had  his  hearin',  Buddy  would  o'  took  'im,  an'  he's 
a  heap  o'  comp'ny.  Reck'n  'twasn't  nothin'  but 
the  fire  poppin'.  Even  po'  Richard  looks  sort  o' 
droopy  to-night.  His  lame  wing  seems  to  flag 
mo'n  common.  I  often  wish  't  he  could  lif  that 
wing,  but  of  co'se  ef  he  hadn't  o'  fell  out  o'  the 
crepe  myrtle -tree  an'  broke  it,  I  wouldn't  have 


158 


him.  The  ill  wind  thet  upset  his  nest  has  brought 
me  many  a  sweet  song.  I  wish  't  he'd  sing  to 
night. 

"  Funny  how  I  always  set  up  Christmas  Eves. 
Sence  I  been  livin'  to  myself  I  can't  go  to  sleep  a 
Christmas  Eve,  save  my  life.  Th'  ain't  a  stockin' 
I  ever  hung  up,  nor  a  present  I  ever  got  or  give, 
nor  one  o'  the  folks  thet  give  'em  or  took  'em, 
but  'd  come  an'  pass  befo'  my  face  quick  ez  I'd 
shet  my  eyes  to-night.  But  when  twelve  o'clock 
is  once-t  passed,  I  can  lay  down  an'  sleep  jest  like 
a  baby.  It's  mos'  twelve  now.  I'm  a-goin'  to  slip 
Richard's  new  drinkin'-cup  in  his  cage,  an'  put  his 
big  egg-ball  by  him,  so's  when  he  wakes  up  he'll 
find  his  Christmas  breakfast-table  a'ready  set — 
an'  b'lieve  I'll  hang  Rover's  new  collar  right  by 
him,  too — -it's  a  mighty  nice  collar,  considerin'  it's 
made  out  o'  ol'  shoes.  Goodness  !  what  is  that  a- 
rumblin'  on  that  back  gallery  ?  The  matter  with 
me  to-night  is  jest  thet  I've  clean  neglected  my 
duty.  That's  what  it  is,  an'  I'm  a-goin'  this  min 
ute  an'  get  my  Bible  an'  read  my  chapter,  an' 
maybe  my  nerves  '11  be  less  nervous.  I  feel  's  ef 
I  could  laugh  or  cry  jest  ez  easy  ez  not. 

Miss  Lucetta  drew  her  chair  to  the  table  before 
the  fire  and  opened  the  Book.  While  she  sat  thus 
seeking  tranquillity  of  mind  in  her  lonely  room, 
her  lover,  in  his  study,  scarce  more  than  out  of 
sight  beyond  the  grove,  was  restlessly  pacing  the 
floor,  his  hands  nervously  clasped  behind  his  back. 
In  the  centre  of  the  room,  upon  the  floor,  lay  a 


'  I    DON'T    SAY    BUT    I    AM    LONESOME    SOME'JIMES  '  " 


159 


huge  cotton  sack,  closely  filled  with  sundry  parcels 
of  various  sizes  and  shapes.  Ever  and  anon,  as  he 
walked,  he  stopped  before  the  bag,  thinking.  He 
was  evidently  worried. 

"  Jest  how  to  get  it  there  I  don't  know,"  he 
said  aloud,  in  one  of  these  pauses,  "  less'n  I  jest 
go  an'  dump  it  on  the  back  gallery  an'  run — V 
then  ten  to  one  she'd  seek  the  dog  on  me,  V  I'd 
have  to  own  up  or  get  bit.  The  idea  of  her  not 
tellin'  me  thet  she'd  let  Aunt  Judy  take  holiday  ! 
Never  was  so  'stonished  in  my  life  ez  when  I 
sneaked  roun'  to  ast  Judy  to  listen  for  me  an'  he'p 
me  out,  to  find  her  do'  shet  an'  locked,  an'  she 
gone.  How  to  do  now  I  don't  know.  I  got  a 
great  mind  to  rig  up  like  a  peddler  an'  sneak  roun' 
to  the  back  do'  with  my  pack,  an'  then,  ef  she 
hears  me  an'  I'm  put  to  it,  I'll  jest  act  it  out. 
Don't  reck'n  it  'd  skeer  'er — I  wouldn't  frighten 
'er  for  nothin'.  That's  jest  the  way  I'll  work  it. 
Like  ez  not  she  won't  heal'  me,  an'  I'll  leave  the 
pack  right  outside  'er  'do' — an'  ef  she  does,  reck'n 
I'm  that  good  of  a  actor  to  play  it  out.  Do  wish 
't  I  knew  some  special,  pertic'lar  thing  she'd  like 
for  Christmas.  I  daresn't  put  too  many  drug-sto' 
things  in,  less'n  she'd  s'pect  me.  I've  done 
wrapped  the  flesh-bresh  up  in  the  bolt  o'  caliker, 
an'  put  the  sweet  soap  in  with  the  sardines  an' 
buckwheat  —  heap  o'  the  groceries  sells  sweet- 
smellin'  soap.  An'  the  pills — I'm  most  afeerd  to 
put  them  in  at  all  ;  but  the  Avhites  of  her  eyes  is 
a  mighty  yaller  color  ;  reck'n  they  better  go  in  ; 


160 


they're  jest  dropped  in,  accidental  like,  in  among 
the  nutmegs  an'  things.  I'm  mighty  glad  I  thought 
about  this  air-pillar.  She  won't  never  s'pect  this, 
cause  th'  'ain't  never  been  one  sold  in  this  town. 
This  'n  is  jest  a  sample  they  sent  me  for  the  sto', 
an'  it  '11  be  mighty  nice  for  'er  to  lay  'er  lame  arm 
on  to  sort  o'  rest  it  an'  cool  it.  Better  blow  it  up, 
I  reck'n,  so  she'll  know  what  it  is.  She  might 
mistake  it  for  a  hot-water  bag.  That's  it,"  he 
added,  with  satisfaction,  surveying  the  inflated 
pillow — "  that's  jest  about  solid  enough  to  feel 
good.  It  '11  be  mighty  nice  for  the  hammock, 
too.  Hope  she'll  like  a  red  hammock.  I  could  o' 
got  a  blue  one,  but  I  thought  when  she'd  lay  in  it 
in  the  summer  under  the  trees  the  red  would  sort 
o'  match  the  crepe-myrtle  flowers.  Th'  ain't  a 
thing  mo'  I  can  think  of  fhet  I'd  like  to  put  in  the 
bag,  less'n  it's  mo'  physic,  an'  reck'n  I  don't  dare 
to.  An'  now  I'm  a-goin'  to  rig  out.  Pa's  ol'  wig 
an'  ol'  Uncle  Mose's  blanket-overcoat,  an' — an' — 
reck'n  I  better  button  a  piller  in  the  front  o'  this 
overcoat — 'n'  then  it's  full  loose.  I'll  put  a  little 
o'  this  chimbly  black  on  my  eyebrows,  an' — won 
der  ef  she  wouldn't  know  my  walk  ?  She's  often 
tol'  me  she  did.  If  I  had  a  crutch — or  no,  here's 
the  thing !  Here's  the  thick-soled  shoe  I've  jest 
got  made  for  Jim  Toland's  short  leg  —  I'll  put 
that  on.  That's  the  ticket !  Anybody  thct  'd 
know  me  now  'd  be  welcome  to  own  me.  Jim- 
miny  !  But  it's  awkward  an'  clumsy  liftin'  that 
bundle  with  this  shoe  on.  Reck'n  I  better  take 


161 


off  the  shoe  tell  I  get  the  bag  'cross  my  saddle, 
less'n  I'll  break  my  neck." 

It  was  the  work  of  full  half  an  hour  to  steady 
the  cumbersome  bag  across  the  pommel  of  his 
saddle,  replace  the  discarded  shoe,  and,  with  many 
a  narrow  escape  from  slipping  disastrously,  finally 
poise  himself  safely  behind  his  burden,  the  diffi 
culty  being  considerably  aggravated  by  the  fact 
that  the  right  stirrup  refused  to  accommodate  the 
foot  with  a  four-inch  sole,  so  that  to  maintain  the 
equilibrium  of  the  structure  was  no  mean  test  of 
horsemanship. 

"  Purty  way,  this,  for  a  man  to  take  his  Christ 
mas  gifts  to  his  sweetheart,"  he  said,  with  a  ner 
vous  chuckle,  as  finally  he  started  into  the  footpath 
across  the  narrow  wood.  "Purty  way,  creepin' 
roun'  like  a  thief  in  the  dark  ;  but  I  reck'n  it's 
jest  about  in  keepin'  with  the  rest  o'  my  co'tin'. 
For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I'm  glad  that  dog's 
deef,"  he  added,  as  finally  he  halted  a  moment, 
listening  at  the  back  gate. 

Dr.  Jim  Morgan  was  a  dignified  figure,  of  an 
erect  slenderness  of  person,  and  an  air  that  only 
his  extreme  kindliness  of  manner  redeemed  from 
pomposity.  There  could  have  been  nothing  more 
out  of  keeping  with  his  own  personality  than  his 
present  disguise — nothing  more  characteristic  than 
that  in  his  eagerness  to  serve  another  he  should 
have  lost  all  thought  of  himself.  With  the  ut 
most  caution  he  deliberately  opened  the  gate  and, 
leading  his  horse  now,  stealthily  crossed  the  yard. 


162 


He  had  just  reached  and  mounted  the  steps,  when 
he  remembered  the  chance  of  having  to  speak. 
His  voice  would  surely  betray  him,  unless —  He 
took  hastily  from  his  vest-pocket  a  stick  of  lico 
rice  and  bit  off  a  piece.  The  chewing  itself  would 
help  the  disguise.  And  now,  steadying  himself 
against  the  horse  a  moment,  he  reached  over  and 
lifted  the  sack  from  the  saddle.  He  would  not 
essay  to  carry  it  up  to  the  door.  The  heavy  shoe 
was  as  noisy  as  a  crutch.  He  dare  not  risk  a  sin 
gle  step  upon  the  porch,  but,  turning  cautiously, 
would  deposit  his  burden  at  the  head  of  the  steps, 
and  springing  into  his  saddle,  make  good  his  es 
cape.  He  did  turn  cautiously,  but,  alas  for  a  leg 
suddenly  grown  long,  a  bulky  weight,  a  time-worn 
floor !  Suddenly  as  he  turned,  never  so  cautious 
ly,  something  slipped — then  everything!  The  col 
lapse  which  shook  the  house  frightened  the  horse, 
who  wisely  took  to  his  heels  with  a  bound  into  the 
darkness.  Before  Dr.  Jim  could  recover  himself 
or  gather  his  scattered  senses,  not  to  mention  his 
hat  and  wig,  the  key  turned  in  the  door.  In  a 
moment  more  Miss  Lucetta  stood  in  the  opening. 

"What  '11  you  have,  sir?"  she  asked,  steadily 
peering  out  upon  the  towering  figure  that  reared 
itself  before  her,  dimly  outlined  in  the  darkness. 

If  she  was  frightened  she  did  not  show  it.  The 
Bible  lay  open  on  the  table  behind  her. 

Advancing  laboriously,  in  mortal  terror  of  a 
second  tumble,  Dr.  Jim  turned  the  licorice  in  his 
mouth  and  spat  upon  the  floor.  Then  he  spoke  : 


163 


"  Would  the  good  people  thet  lives  here  let  a  po1 
way  farm'  man  lay  his  burden  down  for  the  night?" 

The  form  of  speech  was  Biblical.  Whether 
consciously  so  or  not,  it  was  a  stroke  of  genius. 

"  My  'amble  do'  is  always  open  to  shelter  a  way- 
farin'  pilgrim,"  she  replied,  as,  stepping  back,  she 
produced  a  candle. 

The  wayfarer  made  a  movement  as  if  to  deposit 
his  load  outside  the  door,  but  with  a  swift  motion 
of  the  hand  she  invited  him  in. 

"  It  might  rain  du'in'  the  night.  Better  lay  it 
on  the  side  o'  the  hearth,"  she  said,  kindly. 

"  Thanky  mightily,  ma'am,"  he  responded,  send 
ing  a  licorice  -  colored  spray  over  the  reddened 
bricks  as  he  spoke. 

His  extremity  was  desperate,  and  this  volley 
was  wholly  defensive.  Turning,  and  hobbling 
grotesquely  now,  he  prepared  to  depart. 

"Ef  you'd  like  to  stay  yourself,  I  can  let  you 
have  the  key  of  a  good  yard  -  room,"  she  added, 
following  him  to  the  door. 

"  Thanky;  no,  'm — no,  thanky,  ma'am  ;  I've  got 
cover  for  myself,  thanky.  Good -night,  ma'am. 
I'll  call  roun'  in  the  mornin',  ma'am." 

And  before  she  knew  it,  her  grotesque  midnight 
visitor  had  hobbled  down  the  steps  and  was  gone. 
In  the  bestowal  of  sympathy  she  had  forgotten 
all  fear  now,  and,  turning  back,  she  closed  and 
mechanically  locked»the  door.  But  the  incident 
had  restored  her  drowsing  faculties  to  full  wake- 
fulness.  It  was  well  past  midnight  ;  but  instead 


164 


of  going  to  bed,  she  threw  an  armful  of  wood 
upon  the  fire  and  took  her  seat.  No  sooner  had 
she  sat  down,  however,  than,  naturally  scanning 
the  bag,  she  was  seized  with  a  sudden  fear.  It 
was  so  much  larger  than  she  had  realized.  It 
had  rolled  over  heavily.  What  was  it  ? 

In  a  twinkling  it  seemed  that  the  clock  was  run 
ning  a  race  with  her  heart,  and  the  strokes  of  both 
were  terrific — like  those  of  a  blacksmith's  anvil. 
Then  she  felt  her  face  grow  red  and  pale,  as 
breathlessly  she  watched  the  bag.  She  watched 
in  silence  while  the  clock  ticked  sixty  seconds, 
a  hundred  and  twenty — she  never  knew  why  she 
counted  them,  but  she  did  —  one  hundred  and 
twenty  —  and  then  she  lost  count.  She  had 
reached  a  decision.  And  now  she  rose,  and,  mov 
ing  alertly,  piled  wood  upon  the  fire,  as  much  as 
the  chimney  would  accommodate,  and  drawing 
forward  a  pot  -  hook,  she  suspended  upon  it  the 
teakettle,  ready  filled  with  water  for  the  morn 
ing's  coffee.  Then  she  sat  down  again,  and  the 
clock  hammered  forty-seven  times  while  she  stud 
ied  the  bag  again.  Then  rising  once  more,  she 
tried  all  the  windows,  secured  their  bolts,  and,  lift 
ing  the  heavy  iron  hook,  rarely  used  now,  she 
doubly  fastened  the  door.  Returning  to  the  ket 
tle,  which  had  by  this  time  begun  to  sing,  she 
tied  a  long  twine  to  its  handle,  and  moving  back 
wards,  drew  it  taut,  and  sat  down  again  and  stud 
ied  the  bag.  As  she  watched  it  she  felt  sure  that 
she  saw  it  move — just  a  little,  as  one  cautiously 


165 


breathing,  with  occasionally  just  the  suspicion  of 
a  quiver.  But  she  was  not  frightened  now.  She 
was  only  patiently,  alertly  awaiting  developments. 
The  fire  was  roaring,  and  the  room  grew  hot.  She 
moved  back  her  chair,  retaining  the  end  of  the 
twine,  Avhich  in  its  passage  from  the  kettle  to  her 
hand  extended  over  the  bag.  How  long  she  would 
have  sat  thus  it  is  impossible  to  say,  had  there  not 
occurred  a  sudden  unmistakable  movement  in  the 
bag.  With  a  swishing  sound,  distinctly  like  an 
unsuppressed  sigh,  there  was  a  sinking  in  the  out 
line  of  the  figure  before  her.  For  a  moment  she 
felt  as  if  she  should  smother,  so  fast  did  her  heart 
flutter;  but  this  soon  passed,  and  before  she  knew 
she  had  spoken,  she  had  said  aloud  : 

"I'm  compelled  to  tell  you,  sir,  thet  they's  a 
kittle  full  o'  b'ilin'  water  right  over  yore  head,  an' 
ef  you  move  I'll  be  fo'ced  to  douse  you  all  over 
with  it,  so  don't  stir!  An'  now  good-evenin', 
sir,"  she  continued,  pausing.  "Maybe  you  don't 
see  me,  'cause  I  can't  see  jest  which  way  you're 
a-layin',  but  don't  pretend  you  don't  hear.  I  say 
good-evenin',  sir  !" 

Another  pause. 

"  You  don't  lay  off  to  speak,  don't  you  ?  Well, 
I  can't  say  I'm  s'prised  much,  though  I  have  heerd 
thet  sech  ez  you  was  mighty  polite  an'  mannerly. 
But  ef  you  ain't  settin'  out  to  be  civilized,  that 
don't  hender  me  none — an'  you're  in  my  house,  an' 
though  I've  got  to  say  some  plain  things  to  you, 
I  lay  to  say  'em  jest  ez  polite  ez  ef  they  wasn't  so 


166 


plain.  Of  co'se,  I  take  it  you're  a  man.  Th' 
ain't  no  woman  got  quite  so  far  down  ez  to  be 
where  you  are,  ez  far  ez  I've  heerd  tell ;  an'  ef 
they  was  to  do  it,  they'd  take  some  other  night 
than  Christmas  Eve  for  it.  So  I  nachelly  take  it 
you're  a  man,  though  not  a  very  big  one,  less'n 
you're  considerable  cramped,  the  way  you're  doub 
led  up;  but  you're  a  male  person,  of  the  sex 
planned  an'  executed — that  is  to  say,  made — for 
the  special  pertection  of  women-folks  an'  children, 
instead  o'  which  you've  deliberately  started  out 
to  pester  an'  rob,  ef  not  to  murder,  a  lone,  unper- 
tected  woman.  You  'lowed  thet  she'd  get  to  bed 
purty  early,  an'  you'd  get  out  o'  yore  sack  an' 
open  the  do'  for  yore  crowd.  Th'  ain't  nothin' 
very  new  in  yore  plan.  I've  heerd  about  burglars 
brought  in  by  peddlers  in  packs  'fore  to-night,  an' 
stowed  away  under  oak  staircases  ;  but  I  'ain't 
never  heerd  of  none  takin'  so  much  trouble  less'n 
they  was  mo'  to  steal  'n  what  I've  got.  I  don't 
say  I  'ain't  got  nothin',  mind  you,  but  what  I 
have  got  I  don't  ca'culate  to  let  you  have.  I 
s'picioned  you  was  in  that  sack  most  ez  quick  ez 
yore  pardner  went  out,  'n'  I  was  pretty  shore  I 
seen  you  trimble  long  befo'  you  sighed  out  aloud. 
I  don't  wonder  you're  low-sperited,  an'  I'm  glad 
to  see  it.  It  make  me  have  hopes  thet  you're  not 
wholly  give  over  to  evil.  Ef  you'd  o'  chuckled, 
layin'  there  the  way  you  are,  I'd  hardly  had  the 
heart  to  pray  for  you,  much  less  to  reason  with 
you  ez  I  hope  to  do.  The  kittle  o'  b'ilin'  water  is 


167 


bangin',  ez  I  said,  on  a  pot-hook  purty  nigh  over 
yore  head  or  yore  feet,  one,  an'  I've  got  a  string 
tied  to  it,  so's  a  quick  jerk  'd  give  you  a  mighty 
fiery  baptism ;  but  I  don't  ca'culate  to  spring  it  on 
you  less'n  you  move.  So  ef  you  feel  a  sneeze  or 
anything  sudden  comin'  on  you,  I'd  advise  you  to 
tell  me  befo'hand,  'cause  ef  you  was  to  stir  sud 
den  I  might  souse  you  'fo'  I'd  be  able  to  stop  my 
self.  When  I  first  seen  you  trimble  I  don't  deny 
I  was  purty  tolerable  skeered,  not  havin'  no  man 
'round,  but  my  skeer  didn't  last  long,  'cause  I 
mighty  soon  reelized  thet  ef  anybody  in  a  tight 
place  ever  had  cause  for  gratitude,  I  was  that 
person.  I  don't  reck'n  there  ever  was  a  lone  per 
son  that  was  attackted  by  a  burglar  thet  wouldn't 
o'  give  a  heap  to  've  had  'im  tied  up  in  a  bag 
same  ez  I've  got  you — even  ef  you  have  got  the 
way  to  get  out,  you'd  have  to  fumble  consider'ble 
to  do  it.  So,  stid  o'  frettin'  over  it,  I  jest  rea 
soned  thet  you  wouldn't  nachelly  stir  tell  I  was 
asleep,  'cep'n'  I  let  on  I  saw  you,  which  of  co'se  I 
didn't  'low  to  do  tell  I  was  prepared  to  entertain 
you.  So  now  I've  piled  on  a  good  fire,  an'  I've 
hung  on  two  pots  o'  water  besides  the  kittle,  an' 
I've  b'iled  a  pot  o'  coffee  while  I  been  talkin'  to 
you,  so  even  ef  you  ain't  very  sprightly  I  won't 
get  sleepy.  I  'ain't  never  scalted  no  live  thing 
'cep'n'  my  own  foot  once-t,  an'  I  know  how  it 
feels — an'  ef  I  do  have  to  douse  you  it  '11  pain 
me  mightily. 

Now  I  reck'n  we  both  understand  one  another, 


168 


an'  I  tell  you  what  I  lay  off  to  do.  I  don't  reck'n 
you've  been  to  no  religious  service  much  lately; 
'n'  ef  you  have,  you've  perverted  their  teachin' 
sinfully,  and  I  reckon  I  couldn't  put  in  this  time 
'twixt  now  an'  time  yore  crowd  comes  better  'n 
by  a  little  Scripture  readin'  an'  prayer.  Now  I'm 
a-holtin'  on  to  the  kittle  rope  while  I  open  the 
Bible,  an'  I  needn't  to  tell  you  it's  a-b'ilin',  'cause 
you  can  hear  it,  less'n  you're  deef,  even  ef  yore 
head's  the  other  way,  which — I — don't — think  it 
— is,  come  to  look  close-t.  I  reck'n  the  kittle  'd 
upset  jest  about  over  yore  eyes  ef  I'd  jerk  it  easy  ; 
an'  ef  I'd  give  it  a  hard  snap  yore  stummick  an' 
maybe  yore  legs  'd  get  it ;  but,  howsoever,  I  trust  I 
won't  be  called  to  give  you  no  sech  warm  reception, 
bein'  ez  you're  my  comp'ny.  Of  co'se,  all  I'm  a-say- 
in'  is  said  'thout  a  bit  o'pers'nal  feelin's;  not  even 
knowin'  who  you  be,  it  couldn't  well  be  otherwise. 
I  don't  even  know  ef  you're  black  or  white — that 
is,  'cep'n  my  sense  tells  me  you're  white.  They's 
a  plenty  of  our  colored  folks  thet's  up  to  a  heap 
o'  meanness,  but  this  ain't  their  sort.  No,  you 
ain't  no  nigger — an'  you  ain't  a  woman.  You're 
some  pore  misguided  man — or  boy.  Of  co'se,  I 
hope  you  ain't  none  of  our  county  boys.  Th' 
ain't  but  two  thet  you  could  be — an'  on'y  one  o' 
them — because  you  ain't  big  enough  for  Tommy 
Towns.  But  maybe  you're  Ned  Jenkins — not 
accusin'  you,  Ned,  ef  it  shouldn't  be  you — but  ef 
it  is  I  want  to  say  a  few  words  to  call  to  mind 
yore  raisin'.  I  knew  yore  mother  before  you  was 


169 


born,  Ned,  an'  her  mother  before  her,  leastways 
her  step-mother,  'n'  they  wasn't  better  folks  no 
where  'n  they  was.  Yore  mother  died  a  Christian 
death,  exultin'  in  the  faith  an' — oh,  Lordy,  ef  it 
should  be  you,  Ned,  I'd  like  to  know  it,  so  's  I 
could  reason  with  you  ez  I  should.  Ef  I  knew 
for  shore  it  was  you,  I'd  be  mos'  tempted  to  let 
go  this  string  an'  let  you  out  decenter  'n'  how  you 
come  in ;  but  even  ef  you  was  to  confess,  I'd  have 
no  call  to  believe  you.  You  might  be  lyin',  so 
'twouldn't  do  no  good,  cep'n'  for  the  relief  of 
yore  own  soul.  Now,  the  first  thing  I'm  agoin' 
to  do  is  to  read  a  po'tion  of  scripture  to  you,  an' 
ef  you  are  anybody  else,  I  trust  you'll  apply  it 
to  yoreself  jest  the  same. 

"  What's  that  smell  ?"  Starting  suddenly,  Miss 
Lucetta  nearly  upset  the  kettle  in  her  fright. 
"  You're  a-tryin'  to  chloroform  me,  are  you  ?" 

There  was  undoubtedly  a  sudden  revelation 
throughout  the  room  of  a  strange  heavy  odor. 
Miss  Lucetta  laid  down  her  book,  and,  going  to 
the  window,  retaining  the  string  the  while,  lifted 
the  sash.  Then  she  drew  back  the  table,  and  set 
her  chair  near  it. 

"  I  reck'n  I  can  set  here  an'  sniff  enough  o'  the 
air  ez  it  comes  thro'  the  cracks  to  spile  that  game. 
An'  I'll  take  a  good  whiff  o'  coffee,  too.  They 
say  it  '11  outdo  chloroform  ef  it's  took  in  time,  so 
I'll  take  it  right  now.  I'm  a-keepin'  the  string, 
mind  you,  while  I  po'  the  coffee.  It  does  seem  un 
mannerly  to  drink  it  down  'thout  offerin'  you 


170 


none,  'specially  after  you  passin'  yo'  refreshments 
roun'  the  way  you're  doin'." 

She  drank  the  coffee. 

"  Now  I'm  wide  enough  awake  to  sniff  a  pint 
of  yore  stuff  'thout  feelin'  it,  an'  I'd  advise  you, 
ez  a  Christian,  to  stop  up  that  bottle.  Befo' 
readin',  let's  both  of  us  spend  a  moment  in  silent 
prayer.  Ef  you're  partly  on  yore  knees  already, 
I  reckon  that  '11  do,  an'  ef  you  ain't,  I'll  promise 
not  to  jerk  the  cord  tell  you  kneel  down — ef  you 
can  ;  an'  ef  you  can't,  I  reck'n  the  Lord  '11  excuse 
yore  attitude,  even  ef  sin  did  put  you  there." 

She  inclined  her  head,  and  her  moving  lips  had 
begun  a  silent  invocation,  when  suddenly  Rover 
sprang  from  his  sleep  with  a  bound  and  a  yelp. 
A  coal  had  popped  from  the  fire  upon  him.  With 
a  terrified  ejaculation,  Miss  Lucetta  sprang  to  her 
feet,  the  kettle  of  boiling  water  deluging  the  sack. 

For  a  moment  she  came  near  fainting.  Then  a 
new  terror  seized  her.  There  was  no  response  to 
the  fiery  bath.  Manifestly  the  occupant  of  the 
sack  had  died  some  moments  before.  The  sigh 
she  had  heard  was  no  doubt  a  dying  gasp.  The 
old  man  who  had  deposited  him  upon  her  hearth 
was  his  murderer.  ,A  terrible  fear  seized  her. 
She  sank  into  her  chair,  trembling  like  an  aspen 
leaf,  the  twine  falling  from  her  hand  upon  the 
floor.  How  long  she  sat  thus  she  never  knew.  It 
seemed  an  age  that,  never  taking  her  eyes  from 
the  uncanny  thing  that  lay  before  her,  she  pa 
tiently  waited  for  the  dawn.  Indeed,  sitting  thus 


171 


within  the  closely  fastened  room,  impenetrable  by 
the  first  weak  rays  of  the  morning,  she  knew  not 
that  the  end  of  her  weary  wake  was  approaching, 
until  suddenly,  just  behind  her,  outside  the  front 
window,  she  heard  the  welcome  and  cheery  voice 
of  Dr.  Jim  : 

"A  merry  Christmas  to  you,  dearie  !" 

Starting,  she  hardly  knew  how,  she  strode  to 
the  front  door,  raised  its  heavy  hook,  and  turned 
the  key. 

It  was  nearly  an  hour  later  when  she  opened  her 
eyes,  to  find  herself  lying  upon  the  parlor  sofa.  Dr. 
Jim  was  kneeling  beside  her,  chafing  her  hands. 

"  An'  to  think  of  me  not  knowin'  the  pore  man 
was  dyin'  tell  it  was  too  late  !"  She  began  to 
cry  wildly.  "  But  I  did  talk  to  him  ez  serious 
ez  I  could,  Jim — but,  oh,  ef  I  could  just  've  con 
verted  'im  !  I'd  think  maybe  I  had,  ef  he  hadn't 
o'  tried  to  chloroform  me  the  las'  thing  he  did  on 
earth,  so  I  know  he  died  in  sin — right  befo'  my 
face,  and  me  threatenin'  'im  with  hot  water." 

Poor  Dr.  Jim  thought  that  some  unexplained 
tragedy  had  bereft  her  of  her  reason.  It  was  only 
after  she  had  recovered  herself  sufficiently  to  rise 
and  speak  coherently  that  the  truth  began  slowly 
to  dawn  upon  him. 

"An'  to  think  of  me  a-spendin'  half  o'  the 
night,  Jim,  a-arguin'  with  a  corpse.  I'm  'feerd 
to  see  you  open  the  bag,  less'n  it  might  be — any 
body  we  know." 

"  But  it  ain't,  honey,  I  'shore  you  it  ain't."    He 


172 


sat  beside  her,  and  his  arm,  for  the  first  time  in 
thirteen  years,  supported  her  shoulders.  "  Th' 
ain't  nobody  in  there — I'll  wager  they  ain't,"  he 
insisted,  soothingly. 

"  But  I  saw  'im  die,  I  tell  you,  Jim.  I  saw  'im 
breathe  his  last,  and  heerd  'im.  I'm  not  a  foolish 
child,  Jim.  I  tell  you  they's  a  terrible  deed  been 
did,  V  the  sooner  it's  found  out  the  better." 

The  situation  was  too  tragic  for  laughter. 

"  They's  some  mighty  foolish  things  been  did, 
I  don't  deny,  honey,  an'  I  been  a-doin'  a  few  my 
self,"  he  said,  tenderly.  "  But  they's  some  sen 
sible  things  goin1  to  be  did  —  an'  I'm  goin'  to 
come  in  for  a  sheer  o'  them,  too.  Now,  Lucetty, 
honey,  you're  all  overwrought  an'  worked  up,  an' 
I'm  goin'  to  do  yore  thinkin'  for  the  next  hour  or 
two.  Go  get  your  hat,  honey — or  letnme  get  it." 

"  What  you  want  with  my  hat,  Jim — an'  a  dead 
man  lyin'  on  the  flo' — not  even  laid  out  decent  ?" 

"  Here,  now,  honey.  Here's  yore  hat,  an'  I've 
got  my  buggy  out  here,  an'  you're  comin'  with  me." 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him. 

"  Come  on,  now  ;  they  ain't  no  time  to  lose. 
Ef  the  strength  of  mind  the  Lord's  jest  give  me 
ain't  used  quick,  it  might  forsake  me.  Come  on, 
honey  f  You  don't  want  another  thing  but  just 
what  you've  got  on.  That's  it.1' 

She  had  obediently  risen,  and,  silently  wonder 
ing,  walked  to  the  buggy  with  him  as  one  in  a 
dream  or  hypnotized  by  sheer  force  of  will. 

"  Where  you  goin'  now,  Jim  ?"  she  asked,  fee- 


173 


bly,  when  they  were  safely  within  and  driving 
down  the  road. 

"  I'm  a-goin'  in  here  for  jest  a  minute,"  he  said, 
presently,  "an'  I  want  you  to  hold  the  reins, 
please,  till  I  come  out." 

They  were  at  the  judge's  gate.  Miss  Lucetta 
held  the  reins.  In  a  few  minutes  he  returned, 
smilingly  folding  a  slip  of  paper  in  his  hand. 

"An'  now  we're  goin'  over  to  the  preacher's,"  he 
said,  calmly,  as  he  turned  the  horses  the  other  way. 

"  What  for,  Jim  ?"  In  her  voice  was  no  faint 
suggestion  of  protest.  She  asked  it  as  a  child — 
"  What  for,  Jim  ?" 

"  We're  goin'  over  to  'range  things  so's  I  can 
say  whether  or  not  strange  fool  men  can  dump 
their  dog-gone  foolishness  into  yore  bedroom  all 
hours  o'  the  night — that's  what  we're  goin'  to  do. 
'N'  'ef  I'd  o'  had  any  mo'  sperit  'n  a  baked  bis 
cuit-man,  it  'd  o'  been  did  long  ago." 

"  But,  Jim—" 

"  Th'  ain't  no  '  buts '  to  it,  honey,  this  time. 
It's  jest  come  down  to  good  solid  horse-sense  be 
havior  on  my  part — the  way  I  ought  to  've  be 
haved  time  out  o'  mind." 

"  But,  Jim,  where  're  we  goin'  to — to  stay  ?" 

She  was  recovering  her  bearings. 

"  Stay  !  Why,  honey,  we'll  stay  wherever  we 
happen,  I  reckon.  I'll  go  to  stay  with  you  tell 
you  pack  up,  an'  you  can  stay  with  me  a  spell — 
or  we  won't  stay  no  place,  ef  you  say  you.  What's 
stayirf  got  to  do  with  it  ?  I'll  stay  with  you,  an' 


174 


you'll  stay  with  me — less'n  we  get  divo'ced,  which 
we  never  will,  world  without  end,  amen  !  That's 
the  way  I  feel  about  it.  'N'  now,  honey,  how  do 
you  feel  ?" 

For  answer  she  laid  her  hand  in  his. 

"  But  s'pose  they  lay  that  murder  on  me,  Jim — 
an'  we  don't  even  know  who  it  is  ?  We'd  both 
be  in  disgrace." 

"  Never  mind  about  who  it  is.  'Tain't  nobody, 
I  tell  you.  An1  don't  you  mention  a  word  about 
it  in  here — do  you  hear,  honey  ?" 

They  had  arrived  at  the  minister's  door.  The 
marriage  ceremony  is  short — and  it  even  shrinks 
on  occasions  such  as  these.  A  half-hour  in  the 
parlor  on  Christmas  morning,  just  at  the  time 
when  the  little  ones  are  discovering  old  Santa's 
gifts,  is  a  terrible  interruption  to  a  family  man, 
such  as  the  Rev.  Mr.  Franklin  ;  but  so  happy 
was  he  over  this  morning's  work  that  he  declared 
it  was  "  worth  mo'  to  him  than  the  whole  o'  Christ 
mas  to  see  such  faithful  hearts  united  at  last." 

The  news  was  too  good  to  be  kept,  but  bride 
and  groom  would  not  leave  until  they  carried  his 
reluctant  promise  of  secrecy  until  such  time  as 
they  should  themselves  make  it  known.  Not 
even  the  terrible  secret  of  her  bosom,  the  con 
viction  that  a  murdered  man  lay  upon  her  hearth, 
could  keep  the  happiness  that  had  come  to  her 
from  shining  in  Miss  Lucetta's  pallid  face  as  they 
turned  towards  home. 

"  I  brought  the  buggy  out  a-purpose  this  morn- 


175 


in',  honey,  to  beg  you,  whether  or  no,  to  get  in 
it  an'  go  with  me — but  I  didn't  'low  to  run  off 
with  you  the  way  I  did  ;  an'  as  'tis,  I  didrit  ask 
you,  an'  it's  did  anyhow." 

"  You  wouldn't  of  ast  me  again,  after  your  prom 
ise,  would  you  ?  Jim,  I  don't  believe  it  of  you." 

"  Co'se  I'd  of  did  it !  Ef  I  had  to  take  my 
choice  o'  crimes  I'd  o'  did  that  ruther  'n  let  you  live 
an'  die  'fore  my  very  eyes,  'thout  anybody  to  look 
after  you — co'se  I  would  !  All  last  night,  sence  I 
found  out  that  Aunt  Judy  wasn't  on  the  lot — " 

"An'  how  did  you  find  it  out,  I  like  to  know?" 

"  I  jest  found  it  out,  I  tell  you,  an'  it  set  me 
to  thinkin'  s'pose  some  dare-devil  was  to  come  in 
an'  scare  the  wits  out  of  you — whose  fault  'd  it 
be  ?  An'  I  said  to  myself  same  ez  Nathan  said  to 
David,  '  Thou  art  the  man.'  An'  with  that  I  com 
menced  to  think,  an'  the  mo'  I  thought  the  fool- 
isher  I  'peared  to  myself.  You  an'  me  've  been 
settin'  up  here  frettin'  ourselves  about  a  lot  o' 
nonsense,  honey.  We've  talked  about  my  pa  and 
yore  pa  an'  their  little  friendly  disputes,  an'  they 
bein'  on  each  side  o'  this  blamed  fence,  an'  all 
sech  ez  that ;  an'  when  you  come  to  think  about 
it,  the  fence  don't  run  down  mo'n  two  feet  in  the 
groun',  an'  they're  a-layin'  side  by  side  away 
down  below  it — not  frettin'  'bout  fences  no  mo'n 
they  do  'bout  the  grass  that  grows  over  'em." 

There  was  yet  quite  a  little  ordeal  to  undergo 
in  introducing  her  to  the  contents  of  the  fateful 
bag  ;  and  even  when  this  was  done  Miss  Lucetta 


176 


was  still  mystified  at  the  strange  and  unexplained 
phenomenon  of  the  breathing  which,  she  declared, 
she  saw  and  heard.  For  a  time  Dr.  Jim  was  in 
clined  to  laugh  at  her  fancy,  but  presently  the  mys 
tery  was  cleared.  The  flabby  remains  of  the  air- 
pillow  with  a  round  hole  burned  in  its  side  told 
the  tale.  It  had  breathed  its  last  from  a  coal  of 
fire  which  burned  into  its  very  vitals,  and  had 
given  up  the  ghost  most  becomingly,  with  a  gasp. 

"  An'  who  in  creation  you  reckon  it  was  thet 
fetched  the  thing,  Jim  ;  an'  what  you  reckon  he'll 
say  'bout  its  bein'  half  burned  up  an'  wet  the  way 
it  is  ?"  said  Miss  Lucetta,  when  finally  her  wonder 
was  spent. 

*'  Like  ez  not  he  won't  never  come  for  it,  honey. 
Like  ez  not  he's  some — " 

"But  for  gracious  sakes,  Jim,  look  a-here!" 

She  had  taken  from  the  floor  a  slip  of  paper, 
upon  which  was  written,  in  a  cramped  backhand  : 
"  Miss  Lucetty  Jones.  Merry  Christmas  —  from 
Santa  Glaus  !"  It  had  evidently  fallen  out  of  the 
mouth  of  the  sack.  . 

"Now,  who  in  kingdom  do  you  think,  Jim?" 

Dr.  Jim  scratched  his  head.  How  had  he  for 
gotten  the  inscription  written  by  his  own  hand? 

"  Well,  honey,  I  think  this,  ef  you  want  to 
know.  I  think  some  dern  good-hearted  fool,  with 
mo'  good  intention  than  brains,  has  made  a  jack 
of  'isself — that's  what  I  think.  I  s'pose  he  'lowed 
thet  you  wouldn't  min'  havin'  a  few  little  handy 
things  roun'  the  house,  an'  Christmas  was  a  good 


177 


time  for  'em  to  drop  in  ;  an'  he  knew  for  certain 
that  the  weak-kneed  somebody  thet  wears  men's 
cloes  an'  perfessed  all  his  blame  life  to  love  an' 
cherish  you,  wouldn't  have  the  grit  to  come  in  the 
front  do',  an'  claim  his  own,  an'  pervide  for  it;  so 
he  snook  up  the  back  steps  an' .  played  Santa 
Glaus  an'  fool  at  the  same  time — the  weak-mind 
ed,  chicken-hearted — " 

Miss  Lucetta  had  listened  attentively  all  the 
way  through  ;  but  now,  going  to  his  side,  she  laid 
her  hand  upon  his  lips. 

"  That  '11  do  now,  Jim.  Don't  call  yoreself  no  mo' 
names.  You  ain't  no  mo'  fool  than  the  one  you've 
done  married ;  not  a  bit.  I  never  would  o'  knowed 
you  in  creation,  an'  I  wouldn't  've  guessed  it  now 
'f  it  hadn't  o'  been  for  yore  strong  language.  You 
never  would  abuse  another  person  that-a-way,  no 
matter  what  he  done  ;  'n'  you  haven't  washed  that 
enduin'  brown  stuff  off  o*  yore  lips  good,  Jim." 

"  'Ain't  I,  shore  enough  ?"  he  replied,  as  he 
took  her  in  his  arms.  "  I  wouldn't  do  this,"  he 
added  in  a  moment,  as  he  kissed  her  lips,  "  but 
we've  swapped  liquorish -root  too  many  times  in 
school  for  me  to  think  you'll  mind  the  teenchy 
tinechy  bit  on  my  lips.  So  you  didn't  know  me, 
didn't  you  ?  An'  you  forgive  me  for  skeerin' 
you  ;  an'  it's  all  right  ?" 

"  Yas,  Jim,  it's  all  right ;  an'  you  forgive  me 
for  puttin'  you  to  it  the  way  I  did,  tell  you  was 
obliged  to  stoop  to  all  sorts  o'  foolishness  to  do 

yore  part  by  me.     Reck'n  you  better  put  half  o' 
12 


178 


them  things  back  in  the  drug-sto',  though — this 
flesh-bresh,  for  instance." 

lie  chuckled. 

"  Reck'n  a  flesh-bresh  was  a  funny  present  for 
a  man's  sweetheart — but  they  was  some  so  much 
mo'  outlandish  things  a-layin'  roun'  the  show-case 
thet  it  looked  mighty  suitable  to  me." 

Neither  Dr.  Jim  nor  his  wife  ever  told  the 
true  story  of  their  Christmas  wedding,  nor  how 
Miss  Lucetta  labored  for  the  conversion  of  her 
novel  burglar;  but  the  doctor  often  assures  her 
that  her  night's  devotions  were  not  in  vain. 
"  For,"  he  declares,  "  ef  any  po'  fool  sinner  ever 
was  suddenly  lifted  out  o'  plumb  darkness  an' 
his  eyes  opened  unto  the  light  through  human 
agency,  I  was  that  person  ;  an'  ef  you  wasn't  the 
agent,  I  dunno  who  else  it  was." 

Bride  and  groom  went  by  mutual  agreement 
separately  to  the  Brantley  dinner  to  avert  possi 
ble  suspicion.  The  occasion  was  more  than  ordi 
narily  brilliant,  for,  in  spite  of  a  weary,  sleepless 
night,  the  guest  of  honor  was  animated  beyond 
her  habit ;  while  Dr.  Jim,  as  Mr.  Brantley  after 
wards  remarked,  was  "  positively  giddy,  ef  not  to 
say  silly." 

The  goose  joke  came  in,  in  good  time,  during 
the  discussion  of  the  lordly  bird. 

"An'  now,"  said  mine  host,  plunging  the  fork 
into  the  rotund  breast,  "  I  want  to  know  ef  Miss 
Lucetty  an'  Dr.  Jim  —  two  intelligent,  sensible 
Christians — was  to  ask  a  question  o'  the  goose — 


179 


or  to  put  a  cotation  to  it — I  want  to  know  what 
'd  be  a  suitable  thing  for  'em  to  say." 

There  was  a  full  minute's  pause,  and  then,  hav 
ing  exchanged  glances  with  his  wife  and  read  her 
consent  in  her  eyes,  Dr.  Jim  rose  to  his  feet.  The 
bare  mention  of  a  goose  is  a  menace  in  provincial 
repartee,  and  the  objects  of  the  evident  threat 
were  quick  to  perceive  the  situation. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Brantley,  sense  you've  put  the  ques 
tion,"  said  Dr.  Jim,  "I'll  tell  you.  Seems  to  me 
thet  the  mos'  suitable  thing  ice  could  do,  under 
the  circumstances,  might  be  to  fall  on  the  goose's 
bosom  an'  say,  'Farewell,  Mr.  Goose,  we've  jest — ' 
Stand  up,  honey,  an'  help  me  out,  won't  you?" 
Lucetta  rose,  her  face  scarlet.  "  Would  be,  I  say, 
to  fall  on  his  neck  an'  say,  '  Farewell,  Mr.  Goose, 
we've  just  married  out  o'  yore  family.'  Ladies  an' 
gentlemen,  cm'  the  goose,  let  me  interduce  my  wife, 
Mis'  Dr.  Jim  Morgan,  M.D.  An'  mo'  than  that," 
he  resumed,  as  soon  as  he  could  recover  a  hearing 
amid  the  din  of  congratulations — "an'  mo'  than 
that,"  he  insisted,  his  face  now  in  a  broad  grin, 
"  Mis'  Morgan  and  me  we  wish  right  now  to  pre 
sent  our  compliments  to  the  goose,  an'  to  say  thet 
we're  sorry  his  untimely  fate  makes  it  impossible 
for  us  to  expect  him,  but  thet  all  of  his  family  circle 
now  present  are  corjally  invited  to  partake  of  New- 
Year's  dinner  with  us — one  week  from  to-day  !" 

An  invitation  unanimously  and  uproariously  ac 
cepted. 


C^ESAK 


CAESAR 

THE  moon  made  a  pretty  picture,  one  summer 
night,  out  of  a  lot  of  commonplace  things :  two 
shabby  old  men  on  the  bank  of  the  Mississippi 
River,  a  jagged  dark  line  where  young  willows 
grow  close  to  the  water's  edge<  on  one  side,  and 
beyond,  where  the  stream  doubled  its  width  in  a 
sudden  turn,  a  suggestion  of  almost  sea -space, 
marked  by  a  shimmering  line. 

A  keen  adjuster  of  artistic  values,  when  she 
wills  it,  is  the  moon.  She  knows  just  what  to 
hold  in  safe  shadow,  where  to  lend  herself  in  deli 
cate  silver  edging,  where  to  spend  her  glory  like 
a  prodigal. 

One  of  the  men,  a  portly  old  gentleman  whose 
flowing  hair  was  gleaming  silver  to  -  night,  and 
whose  face  showed  a  patrician  uplifting  even  in 
the  half-revelation  of  the  moon,  walked  slowly  up 
and  down  at  the  water's  edge,  halting  occasion 
ally  and  muttering. 

The  other  man  was  black.  Had  the  moon  been 
less  an  artist,  she  would  have  ignored  his  humble 
personality,  blending  it  with  the  shadows,  and 
the  picture  would  have  lacked  its  story. 

He  sat  flat  upon  the  levee,  beside  an  empty 


184 


rocking-chair,  and  solicitously  watched  the  walker 
near  the  water.  Rising  presently  and  seizing  a 
straw  hat  that  lay  in  the  chair,  he  approached 
the  white  man. 

"Marse  Taylor,"  he  said,  presenting  the  hat 
with  some  trepidation,  "  you  thinks  a  heap  o'  de 
Taylor  blood,  doncher  ?" 

The  old  gentleman  paused. 

"  Taylor  blood  ?"  he  repeated,  absently.  Then, 
firing  suddenly,  he  added  :  "  Who  says  anything 
about  the  Taylor  blood  ?" 

"Me.  I  seh,  Marse  Taylor,  seem  lak  you  done 
los'  intruss  in  de  Taylor  blood,  de  way  you  f eedin' 
it  out  ter  fatten  'bout  a  million  o'  muskitties 
a-swarmin'  roun'  yo'  haid.  Deze  heah  gallinip- 
pers  ain't  got  no  mo'  rispec'  fur  a'stokercy  'n  hon- 
gry  cannibal-eaters ;  but  dey  sha'n't  start  a  bobbe- 
cue  on  yo'  haid,  not  whiles  Caesar's  heah  ter  haid 
'em  orf.  Heah,  Marse  Taylor,  four  Gord  sake, 
please,  sir,  put  on  yo'  hat." 

Instead  of  taking  the  hat,  however,  the  gentle 
man  addressed  said  : 

"  Go  and  get  your  own  hat,  you  black,  bald- 
headed  rascal,  you !" 

Caesar  laughed. 

"Hursh,  Marse  Taylor,  hursh.  Any  gallinip- 
per  dat  kin  meek  a  square  meal  off'n  my  haid,  de 
way  I  done  swivelled  up  an'  all  gone  ter  dandruff, 
kin  teck  it  an'  welcome.  Ef  dey'd  all  come 
an'  breck  orf  dey  punctuatiom-p'ints  in  my  hide 
'fo'  dey  samples  de  Taylor  blood,  I  wouldn't  keer. 


185 


Dey  puts  in  dey  pipes  on  yo'  white  skin,  an'  turn  on 
de  suction  tell  dey  mos'  busses  open,  den  come  set 
roun'  on  my  haid  an'  pick  dey  toof  s  an'  hiccough. 
I  done  watched  'em,  an'  I  des'  shoos  'em  off  fo' 
dey  impidence." 

Still  the  white  man  did  not  take  the  hat,  but 
resumed  his  promenade,  Caesar  following  at  his 
side  now,  and  talking  incessantly  while  furtively 
watching  his  face. 

Finally  the  old  gentleman  turned  suddenly, 
and,  with  a  weary  sigh,  sank  into  the  rocking- 
chair.  As  he  sat,  Csesar,  by  a  quick  movement, 
dropped  the  hat  upon  his  head. 

"What  do  you  mean,  sir,  by  your  imperti 
nence?"  he  exclaimed.  But  the  negro  had  already 
started  forward,  and  was  pointing  excitedly  into 
the  air  while  he  cried  : 

"  Look,  four  Gord  sake,  Marse  Taylor  !  Is  you 
see  dat  great  big  gallinipper  fly  off  my  haid  an' 
knock  yo'  hat  right  out'n  my  hand?  Yonder  he 
goes,  todes  de  river  !  I  tell  yer,  sir,  a  gallinipper 
is  de  meanes'  thing  on  top  dis  roun'  worl'  sence 
de  wah!  'Fo'  de  wah,  dey  was  nex'  in  meanness 
ter  a  nigger  slave-owner.  Dem  was  de  meanes'! 
You  ricollec'  ole  Kinky  Jean  Baptiste,  wha'  used 
ter  tie  'is  niggers  up  an'  whup  'em  wid  briars  ?" 

The  old  man  had  taken  his  seat  at  his  master's 
feet,  and,  ignoring  the  hat  which  still  rested  for 
gotten  where  he  had  dropped  it,  continued  with 
out  a  pause : 

"  Who-ee  !     Don't  talk  ter  me  'bout  no  nigger 


186 


slave -owners!  Dey  warn't  nothin'  but  a  cross 
twix'  a  vampire  an' — an'  a  wil'-cat — dat  what  dey 
was!  An'  now  ole  Kinky  Jean  a-settin'  up  in  a 
jedge's  cheer,  a-dolin'  out  jestice  lak  he  knowed 
it  when  he  seed  it!  He  don't  know  no  mo'  'bout 
jestice  'n — 'n  I  does  'bout  grammar — not  a  bit. 
He  twis'  it  ter  spress  'is  own  intruss,  des'  same  as 
I  does  speech.  Pusson  what  git  in  tight  passages 
can't  stop  to  reg'late  speech  by  books,  I  tell  yer ! 
He  boun'  ter  talk  'is  way  out'n  de  tunnel,  gram 
mar  ur  no  grammar.  But  eh,  Lord  !  Ef  I  had 
V  had  education!,  I'd  'a'  made  things  whiz  roun' 
heah  sence  de  wah!  Ricollec'  how  you  used  ter 
try  ter  teach  me  readin'  out'n  a  Bible-book,  Marse 
Taylor  ?  I  d'know  huccome  I  'come  so  thick- 
skulled.  Look  lak  my  min'  done  tooken  sich  a 
lodgmint  in  my  haid,  dat  I  can't  th'ow  it  out  inter 
a  book  ter  save  my  good-fur-nothin'  black  skin  ! 
Tell  de  trufe,  I'd  a  heap  ruther  wrastle  wid  a 
tiger  'n  a  book  any  day,  'caze  I'd  know  'is  lan 
guage  an'  give  'im  good  as  he  sen' — ur  miss  it, 
one.  But  a  book  !  A  book's  des'  de  same  ter 
me  as  Gord.  Look  lak  hit's  a-settin'  in  jedgmint 
over  me,  'caze  hit's  got  a  wisdom  dat  I  can't  tech. 
Dat's  what  meek  me  git  so  still-moufed  in  de 
evenin's,  Marse  Taylor,  settin'  on  de  hyarth  in  yo' 
libr'y.  I  des'  looks  roun'  dem  walls  an'  views  de 
still  knowledge  an'  keep  silence." 

The  old  man  was  borne  onward  into  uncon 
scious  eloquence  by  an  awakening  interest  in  the 
theme  into  which  he  had  drifted  in  his  effort  to  di- 


187 


vert  the  mind  of  his  master,  who  had  not  spoken 
again.  Caesar  was  anxious  at  this  long  silence. 

"  Look  lak  you's  low-sperited  to-night,  mars- 
ter,"  he  resumed,  presently.  "Fur  Gord  sake, 
boss,  don't  let  go  yo'  grip  ;  'caze  time  you  give 
up  Caesar  gwine  let  down  too,  an'  dat  '11  be  a 
purty  howdy-do  !  Is  you  got  any  news  in  a  letter, 
Marse  Taylor  ?" 

"  No  news,  Caesar.  It's  only  the  old  story — 
hard  times — hard  times." 

Caesar  laughed. 

"  De.idee  o'  you  talkin'  'bout  hard  times,  boss, 
settin'  up  heah  wid  a  whole  gol'  toof  a-shinin'  in 
yo'  mouf  dis  minute  !  Hyah  !  Look  a'  me,  wid 
nothin'  but  two  ol'  snags  lef ',  an'  dey  nex'-do' 
neighbors.  I  des'  gums  it  fur  all  I's  wuth,  an' 
bless  Gord  fur  de  soup-pot." 

Caesar's  heart  was  relieved.  If  poverty  were 
all,  there  was  little  to  worry  about.  He  had 
never  been  able  to  understand  how  genuine  qual 
ity  white-folk  could  be  really  poor.  There  were 
plenty  of  "  poor  white  trash  "  within  his  ken  who 
had  been  born  to  poverty  and  poor  ways — who 
talked  long,  dipped  snuff,  went  barefoot,  and 
who,  mannerless  and  moneyless,  were  entirely  be 
neath  the  contempt  of  a  quality  negro  such  as 
himself.  He  could  comprehend  how  such  as  these 
could  actually  feel  hard  times  and  privation,  con 
ditions  treated  only  in  the  abstract  by  aristo 
crats. 

In   a  certain  way,  of  course',  he  apprehended 


188 


that  money  difficulties  formed  an  important  fac 
tor  in  the  post-bellum  situation  ;  but  they  were 
big  difficulties — gentlemen's  straits — arising  peri 
odically  at  the  annual  reckonings,  and  in  no  way 
affected  the  ultimate  question  of  wealth,  excepting 
possibly  to  enhance  its  dignity.  A  financial 
strength  that,  rising  superior  to  high-sounding 
debts,  could  survive  year  after  year  was  a  thing 
to  respect. 

If  his  old  master  had  grown  careless  about  his 
toilet,  if  the  house  needed  paint  and  the  fences 
were  tottering,  were  not  these  merely  the  signs 
of  the  passage  of  time,  which  had  borne  them  all 
into  the  period  of  old  age  ?  —  old  age,  that  pro 
verbially  scorns  outwardnesses,  concentrating  its 
last  vitalities  on  inward  considerations,  spiritual 
or  otherwise. 

Colonel  Taylor's  time  -  sharpened  proclivities 
were  not  spiritual.  They  were  otherwise.  As  a 
young  man  he  had  loved  the  chase,  the  oar,  a 
dozen  books,  his  pretty  wife,  a  good  story  with 
his  wine  and  water  and  venison  steaks.  Now  all 
but  the  last  things  had  passed  away.  His  wife 
had  long  been  but  a  memory.  Horses  and  boats 
were  for  the  young.  The  raconteur  is  lost  with 
out  his  audience. 

But  health,  appetite,  and  an  environment  rich 
in  material  for  its  gratification  were  left  him,  with 
Caesar  for  gleaner,  trapper,  hunter,  fisher,  caterer, 
cook  —  Caesar,  whose  culinary  fame  during  four 
years  of  army  service  had  gone  abroad  through- 


189 


out  the  regiment.  The  truth  was  that  there  were 
scarcely  now,  in  all  Louisiana,  two  greater  old 
epicures  than  old  Colonel  Dunbar  Taylor,  of  Ink- 
land  plantation,  and  his  negro  servant,  Caesar. 
For  ten  years  they  had  lived  without  other  com 
panionship  in  this  old  plantation-house.  For  as 
many  summers  Caesar  had  carried  the  rocker  out 
on  the  levee  outside  the  gate  every  evening,  and 
returned  with  it  upon  his  head  behind  his  master 
when  the  plantation-bell  rang  for  nine  o'clock. 

As  he  did  so  to-night  he  noticed  for  the  first 
time  that  peculiar  little  lurch  in  the  colonel's  gait 
that  suggests  mental  weakening.  Stopping  short 
in  his  path  to  reassure  himself,  he  exclaimed : 

"  Good  Gord  !"  And  again  noting  the  flurried 
movement :  "Rub  yo'  eyes,  nigger,  an'  look  ag'in! 
Yo'  ole  marster  done  tooken  a  new  graveyard 
step,  sho's  you  born!  Hoi'  on  ter  'im  tight,  ole 
man,  an'  min'  'im  good  'fo'  he  slip  away  f'om 
you.  Dey  ain'  no  mo'*Mai*se  Dunbar  Taylors  in 
the  Taylor  fact'ry.  Dis  is  de  las'  drap  o'  de 
Dunbar-Taylor  blood  a-walkin'  down  dat  levee  ; 
an'  ef  yer  don't  nuss  it  good  an'  keep  it  warm, 
dey's  one  ole  nigger  gwine  be  settin'  on  a  green 
grave,  de  onies'  one  lef'  ter  tell  de  tale." 

With  this  he  hurried  forward,  and,  joining  the 
old  gentleman,  touched  his  elbow  gently  as  if  to 
steady  him. 

For  some  time  Caesar  had  suffered  moments  of 
anxiety  about  his  master,  seeing  him  preoccupied 
and  silent,  or,  as  to-night  upon  the  bank,  mutter- 


190 


ing  to  himself.  The  truth  was  that  the  white 
man  had  a  sorrowful  secret — the  only  formulated 
secret  which  he  held  from  the  black — and  it  was 
telling  on  him.  He  had,  of  course,  certain  re 
serves,  and  there  were  passages  in  his  life — mem 
ories  now — in  which  the  old  negro  had  no  part. 
But  these  were  matters  of  course  rather  than 
conscious  reservations.  The  agonizing  feature  of 
his  present  secret  was  that  it  could  no  longer  be 
kept.  Caesar  must  soon  know  it. 

It  was  this :  for  several  years  he  had  main 
tained  his  position  on  the  plantation,  after  a 
foreclosed  mortgage,  only  by  grace  of  the  new 
owner,  as  a  salaried  overseer.  None  of  the  ne 
groes  knew  this.  Caesar  need  never  have  discov 
ered  it  had  the  arrangement  held.  But  it  was  to 
end :  he  had  been  asked  to  resign.  This  was  his 
secret. 

It  was  not  this  specific  fact  which  he  so  dread 
ed  to  confess.  It  was  rather  the  question  that 
would  follow  upon  its  heel  which  disturbed  him : 
What  should  he  do  about  Caesar?  For  himself, 
he  was  strangely  devoid  of  apprehension.  He 
would  go  to  the  city,  where  there  was  "always 
room  for  one  more."  The  world  owed  him  a  liv 
ing,  and  he  would  get  it. 

Comforting  himself  with  such  trite  philoso 
phies  of  the  unfortunate,  he  felt  no  fear.  But 
Caesar  !  He  could  not  take  him.  How  could  he 
leave  him  ?  The  question  had  preyed  upon  his 
mind  until,  in  sheer  desperation,  he  had  resolved 


191 


upon  a  plan  that  came  as  an  inspiration.  He  would 
run  away.  Just  before  the  new  management 
should  take  possession,  he  would  slip  out  in  the 
night  and  hail  a  passing  boat.  He  would  leave  a 
note  explaining  to  the  old  man  in  terms  of  affec 
tion  that  business  had  called  him  away,  and,  hat 
ing  to  say  good-by,  he  had  not  waked  him.  He 
would  close  by  wishing  him  a  prosperous  connec 
tion  with  the  new  administration.  The  note  he 
would  enclose  with  a  personal  line  to  the  post 
mistress,  begging  her  to  read  it  to  the  old  man. 

We  have  seen  that,  on  the  evening  when  this 
story  opens,  Caesar  had  gotten  a  first  inkling  that 
a  serious  matter  was  disturbing  his  master.  The 
suspicion,  once  lodged  within  his  brain,  took  unto 
itself  eyes  and  ears.  If  real  trouble  were  brew 
ing  he  would  discover  what  it  was. 

During  the  month  following  this  no  suspected 
criminal  was  ever  more  closely  watched  than  was 
the  old  gentleman  who  was  summoning  all  his 
craft — a  quality  nearly  extinct  from  disuse — to 
prepare  for  clandestine  flight.  Whether  he  rode 
into  town,  remained  an  hour  beyond  his  habit  in 
field  or  sugar  -  house,  or  repaired  at  an  unusual 
hour  to  his  library,  Caesar  invented  some  ruse  to 
dog  his  footsteps. 

The  old  man,  despite  his  own  habit  of  talking 
to  himself,  could  not  prevent  a  creepy  feeling 
from  spreading  over  him  when  his  master's  voice 
in  monologue  floated  out  the  library  window  or 
announced  him  even  in  advance  of  his  attenuated 


192 


shadow,  as  he  came  with  irregular  step  up  the 
western  walk  in  the  afternoons.  There  was  in  it 
something  uncanny,  confirming  the  impression  of 
an  impending  crisis. 

He  was  destined  soon,  however,  to  discover  a 
clew  giving  shape  and  direction  to  his  suspicions. 
An  old  sole-leather  trunk,  unused  for  a  decade, 
was  transferred  during  his  absence  from  the  gar 
ret  to  his  master's  room,  secreted  behind  his  bed, 
and  carefully  covered  with  folds  of  drapery. 

His  next  discovery  was  of  money  in  the  colonel's 
purse — great  rolls  of  greenbacks.  The  first  thrill 
of  pleasure  at  this  unprecedented  vision  was  fol 
lowed  by  increased  apprehension.  Money  could 
scarcely  be  said  to  be  current  in  these  parts  in 
these  days,  wealth  being  solely  a  matter  of  credit. 
Pen  -  scratches  on  slips  of  paper  floating  into  the 
storehouses  provided  all  life's  necessaries.  Writ 
ten  orders  sent  to  the  great  city  rebounded  in 
supplies  by  tierce  or  barreh  The  familiar  use  of 
money  might  almost  be  said  to  have  been  in  dis 
repute.  It  was  the  only  hope  of  the  poor  whites 
or  such  irresponsible  negroes  as  lived  from  hand 
to  mouth  without  contract.  Even  the  blacks 
whose  thrift  had  lifted  them  into  the  outer  circle 
of  commercial  standing  were  laboriously  inditing 
certain  charmed  words  on  paper  bits,  keeping  their 
money  respectably  out  of  sight. 

His  discovery  of  this  cash  possession  disturbed 
Caesar  more  and  more  as  he  thought  upon  it. 

His  next  clew  was  an  important  one  gleaned 


193 


from  snatches  which  he  overheard  of  conversation 
with  a  neighbor.  They  were  negotiating  for  the 
sale  of  the  colonel's  horse. 

"He's  an  old  horse,  sir,  and  I'll  give  you  sev 
enty-five  dollars  for  him,  and  promise  you  he  shall 
die  mine,"  were  the  visitor's  words. 

"He's  yours,  sir,  on  that  condition,"  was  the 
reply.  "  You  take  him  the  day  I  go.  I'd  rather 
sell  him  to  you  with  this  assurance  than  to  get 
double  the  sum  without  it.  Tell  you  the  truth, 
sir,  there's  only  one  living  thing  I  think  more  of 
than  my  horse,  and  that's  that  old  black  rascal 
Caesar.  I  love  that  darkey.  The  day  I  leave  this 
plantation  I  sneak  away  like  a  runaway  nigger 
because  I  can't  tell  him  good-bye;  And  recollect, 
I  trust  you  to  be  silent." 

Caesar,  eavesdropping,  crouched  on  all -fours 
behind  the  honeysuckle  vine,  rolled  over  back 
ward,  and  retreated  sobbing  at  this  point.  The 
mystery  was  solved.  From  his  hiding-place  he 
hastened,  sniffling  as  he  went,  to  the  river- bank. 
It  was  he  now  who,  walking  up  and  down,  talked 
to  himself. 

"  De  idee  !"  he  sobbed.  "  I  knowed  it — knowed 
it  des'  as  well  'fo'  I  heerd  it  as  I  does  now.  De 
idee  !  An'  a  Taylor,  too — an'  a  D  unbar  Taylor  at 
dat — to — to — to  ac'  des'  lak  a  sneak -thief  !  Well, 
Caesar,  my  boy,  look  lak  yo'  wisdom -toofs  ain't 
come  an'  gone  fur  nothin'.  You  ain't  got  but  des' 
one  ob  'em  lef  in  yo'  jaw ;  but  I  reckin,  wid  hit, 
Caesar  kin  keep  up  wid  Marse  Dunbar  Taylor,  ef 

13 


194 


he  is  able  ter  outdo  Gord  an'  cut  gol'  toofs  in 
place  o'  bone  ones.  So  you  gwine  travelling  is 
you,  Caesar  ?  Seem  lak  you  is.  An'  you  better 
hump  yo'se'f,  nigger,  'caze  dat  trunk  o'  yo'  mars- 
ter's  is  half  packed  now." 

Thus  he  talked  on  until  the  visitor  was  seen  to 
depart,  when  he  hastened  within  his  master's  call. 

That  very  night  it  was  that,  leaving  the  colonel 
snoring,  he  betook  himself  straightway  to  the 
house  of  Kinky  Jean  Baptiste,  the  parish  judge. 
They  had  been  in  close  converse  for  an  hour 
when  Caesar  said  for  about  the  tenth  time  :  "  You 
see,  I  come  ter  you,  jedge,  'caze  you  got  de  papers 
in  de  co't-house,  an'  you  knows.  I  don't  owe  no 
body  a  cent.  An'  I'll  sell  you  my  mule  an'  wagon 
an'  plough  an'  de  spotted  yearlin'  an'  de  red  heifer 
an'  dat  brindled  steer  an' — " 

"An'yo'dog?" 

"  No,  sir.  I  ain't  name  de  dog.  I  seh  I'll  sell 
what  I  done  said  an'  my  crop,  which  is  three  acres 
o'  bottom-Ian'  all  in  cotton,  for  three  honderd  dol 
lars  ;  an'  you  kin  meek  out  de  papers  to  suit  yo' 
se'f,  des'  so  you  pays  me  de  money  cash  down  an' 
write  in  de  paper  dat  dis  here's  a  secret  sale.  An' 
ef  you  tell  it  'fo'  I  go,  de  sale's  done  broke." 

"  But  what  unf reward  succumstance  has  befell 
you,  Caesar,  to  predispose  you  to  exchange  yo' 
domicile  so  suddently?"  pompously  demanded 
the  lettered  administrator  of  justice. 

"Dis  is  des'  a  little  business  'twix'  me  an' 
Marse  Taylor,  jedge,  an'  I  never  tells  out  d*e 


195 


fam'ly  business.  An'  I  wants  de  money  to-morrer 
night.  You  kin  'quire  'bout  m,e  at  de  sto'e  in  de 
mornin',  an'  see  how  I  Stan's  all  roun'.  An'  to- 
morrer,  please  Gord,  'bout  dis  time,  I'll  be  back 
heah." 

On  the  second  day  after  this  another  clandes 
tine  trunk  -  packing  was  under  way.  Like  his 
shadow  Coasar  followed  his  old  master.  Not 
knowing  the  date  of  the  proposed  flight,  he  was 
nervous  at  the  passage  of  every  boat  going  either 
way.  To  the  three  hundred  dollars  realized  from 
the  first,  sale  he  had  added  about  fifty  more  from 
minor  transactions;  and  on  the  last  day — as  it 
proved — on  counting  the  contents  of  the  colonel's 
purse  during  the  old  gentleman's  sleep,  he  chuck 
led  to  find  that  his  own  held  just  one  dollar  more. 

It  was  on  the  evening  of  this  same  day  that 
something  occurred  which  convinced  Cassar  that 
the  departure  was  near  at  hand.  Following  the 
colonel  at  a  safe  distance  through  the  garden 
across  a  meadow,  he  saw  him  approach  his  wife's 
grave,  and,  laying  a  flower  upon  it,  turn  with 
bowed  head  and  slowly  retrace  his  steps. 

It  was  a  delicate  and  dignified  act,  and  Caesar 
was  much  impressed.  Instead  of  proceeding  on 
the  errand  on  which  he  had  been  sent,  he  turned 
into  a  path  leading  through  a  pine  thicket  to  the 
left.  Gathering  wild  roses  as  he  went,  which 
he  mixed,  regardless  of  color  antagonisms,  with 
clumps  of  golden  -  rod,  he  turned  towards  the 
plantation  cemetery,  a  stone's-throw  beyond. 


19G 


"'You  is  a  low-down  nigger,  Caesar,"  he  said  to 
himself  as  he  walked.  "You  better  bless  Gord 
fur  white  folks  dat  kin  show  you  manners.  I  bet 
you  two  bits  you  can't  fin'  yo'  ole  'oman's  grave 
now,  you  ornery  no-'count  nigger,  even  arter  yo' 
marster  done  showed  you  de  motions  o'  manners. 
I  bet  you  hit's  done  growed  up  wid  jimsen-weeds 
an'  cockle-burs  tell  you  won't  know  it.  But  don't 
you  let  on,  nigger.  Ef  you  can't  fin'  it,  des'  step 
up  manful  in  de  presence  o'  de  dead  an'  meek  per- 
ten'  lak  you  is  foun'  it." 

Halting  presently  beside  a  weed-grown  heap, 
and  laying  thereon  his  floral  tribute,  he  continued, 
with  measured  formality  : 

"Heah,  Calline,  ole  'oman,  ef  you  ain't  layin' 
heab,  deze  few  flowers  b'longs  whar  you  is,  honey. 
An'  good-by — so  long!  Praise  Gord,  I  say.  An' 
Lor-rd,  I  do  pray,  keep  a  eye  on  dis  po'  skittish 
no-'count  ole  nigger  ;  an'  ef  he  loose  hisse'f  f'om 
You,  don't  You  loss  Yo'se'f  f'om  him,  I  pray, 
Lord,  'caze  he's  a-gittin'  ready  fur  a  jump  in  de 
dark,  an'  he  dunno  which  way  nur  whar  he  gwine!" 

Turning  slowly,  he  moved  sadly  homeward, 
overtaken  with  emotions  that  surprised  himself. 
He  felt  sure  the  hour  of  parting  with  familiar 
scenes  was  at  hand.  During  the  approaching 
night  a  boat  was  due,  descending  the  river. 
When  it  should  whistle  at  the  bend  five  miles 
above  he  would  watch  the  colonel's  movements, 
and  he  was  ready  to  follow.  So  absorbed  was  he 
in  reflection  that  he  had  proceeded  some  distance 


197 


before  he  descried  in  the  gathering  twilight,  just 
before  him  against  the  sky,  a  dark  column  of 
smoke  spangled  with  ascending  sparks. 

The  boat  was  at  the  landing.  There  had  been 
no  announcing  bell  nor  even  the  customary  whis 
tle.  He  was  being  outwitted  by  a  conspiracy. 
With  a  single  agonized  ejaculation  he  sprang 
forward,  and,  clearing  outer  fence  and  wood-pile 
with  running  leaps,  he  bounded  towards  the  house. 

"You  fool  nigger — you  fool,  you — you  blame 
ole  black  fool  !"  he  cried,  beating  his  breast  as  he 
went  and  sobbing  aloud. 

A  flying  tour  through  the  rooms  confirmed 
the  truth.  The  bird  had  flown.  Even  the  little 
trunk  was  gone. 

Out  over  the  gallery,  down  the  steps,  across 
the  garden,  he  ran  towards  the  fiery  cloud,  scream 
ing  aloud  as  he  went. 

Five  minutes  later,  as  the  boat  pushed  out  into 
the  stream,  the  half-dozen  men  at  the  wharf  fell 
back  in  alarm  as  the  figure  of  a  slim  black  man, 
emerging  from  the  wood  behind  them,  dashed 
madly  into  their  midst,  and,  before  they  could 
interfere,  had  bounded  with  a  single  spring  across 
the  widening  gap. 

A  unanimous  scream  of  alarm  ashore  was 
echoed  by  a  chorus  on  board  ;  but,  in  a  breath, 
a  second  shout  went  up — a  deafening  cheer — as 
the  little  old  man  landed  on  his  feet  atop  a  cot 
ton-bale  on  the  lower  deck. 

He  was  a  shabby  little  hero,  and,  as  the  crew 


198 


gathered  about  his  tattered  figure,  he  felt  need 
of  all  the  dignity  he  could  command.  His  first 
movement  was  to  mop  his  forehead  and  fan  him 
self  with  his  brimless  hat. 

"  What  kind  o'  tug  ur  flat-boat  ur  skif t  ur  what 
is  y'all  a-runnin',  dat  you  can't  'ford  no  whistle 
ter  give  a  gemman  time  ter  dress  'isse'f  ?"  he 
said,  finally,  surveying  his  rags  with  the  air  of  a 
gentleman  surprised  en  deshabille. 

"  Cap'n's  orders,"  was  the  laconic  reply  from 
several  voices. 

"  What  kind  o'  sort  o'  cap'n  is  y'all  got — so 
stingy  wid  'is  steam  ?  If  he'd  V  sont  me  word, 
I'd  'a'  g?n  'im  a  load  o'  pine,  des'  ter  feed  dat  one 
whistle.  What  does  I  look  lak,  ter  go — ter  go — " 

"  Whar  you  gwine  ?"  asked  several  voices  at 
once. 

Ca3sar  suddenly  remembered  that  he  did  not 
know. 

"Whar  I  gwine?  I  gwine  trabblin' — dat's 
whar  I  gwine.  Yer  reck'n  I'd  V  stepped  'crost 
dat  gap  'f  I  was  gwine  stay  home  ?  But  I  wants 
ter  know  huccome  dis  heah  lorg  raft  ain't  blowed 
no  whistle,  an'  I  means  business  !  I  got  de  money 
fur  my  passage  in  my  waistcoat  pocket ;  an'  I 
done  lef  all  my  trunks  an'  ban'-boxes,  'count  o' 
yo'  deef-an'-dumb  nornsense  to-night." 

"  Look  heah,  nigger,"  exclaimed  a  portly  ebony 
swell  standing  near  :  "  ef  you  got  any  bluflin'  an' 
cussin'  ter  do,  s'pose  you  step  up  on  deck  an'  call 
out  de  cap'n.  We  ain't  never  stopped  at  yo'  little 


199 


one-mule  settlemint  befo',  nohow.  Cap'n  des'  run 
in  dar  to-night  'count  o'  ole  Colonel  Dunbar  Tay 
lor  wantin'  ter  go  down  ter  Noo  'Leans.  Whar 
is  you  boun'  fur,  anyhow  ?" 

"  Who — me  ?  I  boun'  fur  Noo  'Leans — dat's 
whar  I  boun'  fur  ;  an'  I  wants  ter  settle  my 
trav'lin'  spenses  now,  too.  I'm  a  cash  man,  I  is ! 
Whar's  do  conductor  what  c'lects  de  small  change 
on  dis  canoe,  anyhow  ?" 

With  a  deliberate  nonchalant  movement  he 
drew  from  his  pocket  a  heavy  roll  of  greenbacks. 

A  change  passed  over  his  audience.  The  iden 
tical  man  who  a  moment  ago  had  resented  his 
bravado  now  exclaimed  : 

"You  fellers  standin'  roun'  heah  better  stop 
yo'  grinnin'.  Some  day,  when  you  in  swimmin', 
somebody  '11  steal  yo'  clo'es,  an'  you'll  be  wuss 
off  'n  dis  gemman  is.  Jes'  walk  up  wid  me,  mis 
ter,  an'  I'll  conduc'  you  ter  de  desk  ter  'posit  yo' 
fare." 

As  the  old  man  proceeded  up-stairs  beside  the 
dazzling  personage,  who  proved  to  be  the  steward, 
it  was  hard  to  decide  which  was  the  more  pom 
pous  of  the  two  ;  and  when,  an  hour  later,  Caesar 
reappeared  with  the  same  escort,  it  was  indeed  a 
question  which  was  the  greater  swell. 

From  a  wealth  of  discarded  garments  of  as 
sorted  conditions,  styles,  and  sizes  —  the  legiti 
mate  perquisites  of  the  steward's  office — Caesar 
had,  through  the  intervention  of  a  goodly  share 
of  his  money-roll,  become  a  splendid  gentleman 


200 


of  so  many  toilet  suggestions  that  the  effect  was 
bewilderingly  non-committal. 

If  the  lavender  trousers  that  adorned  and  some 
what  embarrassed  the  freedom  of  his  thin  legs 
were  coarsened  in  effect  by  a  gaudy  plaid  waist 
coat,  both  were  duly  reproved  and  subdued  by  a 
long  black  coat  of  clerical  pattern,  which  in  its 
turn  was  robbed  of  any  undue  austerity  by  a 
polka-dotted  four-in-hand  tie  and  a  Derby  hat. 

But  Caesar  was  not  altogether  happy.  After 
he  had  carefully  wrapped  and  tied  his  discarded 
clothing  in  his  plaid  kerchief  and  deposited  it  be 
neath  the  mattress  of  his  bunk,  after  he  had  se 
cretly  divided  his  money  into  several  small  rolls 
which  he  concealed  about  his  person,  after  he  had 
sprayed  his  shirt-front  with  the  magic  bulb  of  the 
perfume-bottle  which  his  benefactor  had  thrown 
in  as  lagniappe  at  the  end  of  his  trade,  he  began 
to  feel  restless  for  a  sight  of  his  master. 

His  intimate  relations  with  the  steward  made 
this  a  comparatively  easy  matter.  It  was  embar 
rassed,  however,  by  Caesar's  fear  of  recognition — 
a  needless  apprehension,  as  his  own  mother,  meet 
ing  him  unexpectedly,  would  not  have  recognized 
him. 

It  was  not  until  late  at  night  that  he  ventured, 
standing  in  the  darkness  outside  the  door  of  the 
gentlemen's  cabin,  to  peep  timorously  within. 
The  sight  that  greeted  him  here  filled  his  old 
heart  with  honest  pride.  The  lordly  colonel,  a  veri 
table  grandee  in  appearance,  was  the  centre  of  a 


201 


listening  circle,  while  an  ofttold  tale  was  renew 
ing  its  youth  under  the  combined  stimulus  of  re 
covered  opportunity  and  the  departed  contents 
of  sundry  conspicuous  glasses  upon  the  table 
round  which  the  company  were  gathered,  whereon 
also  a  moving  pack  of  cards  and  a  heap  of  coins 
added  their  suggestions  of  sport  and  peril  to  dis 
cerning  eyes. 

But  Caesar,  standing  in  the  shadow,  saw  only 
that  his  master  was  a  happy  lordling,  unembar 
rassed  by  all  the  gorgeousness  of  gilding  and  up 
holstery  that  was  dazzling  his  own  bewildered 
eyes. 

Drawing  the  heavy  folds  of  the  portiere  about 
him  to  conceal  himself  more  fully,  he  sat  down 
to  feast  his  eyes  on  the  sight. 

"  Umph  !"  he  exclaimed,  mentally.  "  De  Tay 
lors  nachelly  fits  in  granjer.  Des'  look  at  'im  ! 
Lis'n,  chillen  :  he  tellin'  'bout  how  he  fooled  do 
conscrip'  gyards.  Wonder  ef  he  tol'  'em  yit 
'bout  de  Georgy  major.  No,  heah  it  come  now 
— wid  a  new  cuss-word  ev'y  time  he  tell  it." 

Cesar's  pleasure  in  the  scene  was  great,  but 
the  folds  of  the  curtain  were  soft  and  warm 
against  his  back  ;  it  was  growing  late  ;  the  ex 
citement  of  the  day  was  telling  upon  him.  Look 
ing  in  upon  them,  he  beheld  the  figures  with  les 
sening  distinctness,  until  they  seemed  afar  off  at 
the  end  of  a  lengthening  vista.  The  voices  grew 
indistinct.  His  head  bobbed.  He  was  asleep — 
asleep  suddenly,  profoundly,  as  only  old  people 


202 


and  little  children  drop  instantaneously  into  the 
downy  regions  of  rest. 

For  several  hours  the  old  man  had  slept,  unob 
served,  that  sweet,  deep  sleep  of  the  two  child 
hoods,  when  suddenly  he  heard  in  thunder-tones 
his  own  name  : 

"  Caesar !" 

He  was  on  his  feet  in  a  moment,  and  the  next 
found  him  in  the  centre  of  the  gay  saloon,  shout 
ing  in  a  high-noted  voice  of  command  : 

"Teck  yo'  han's  off  dat  gemman,  I  say!  Leave 
go,  I  tell  yer !  Who  say  it's  yo'  money  ?  How 
dast  you  lay  yo'  good-fur-nothin'  pink  fingers  on 
dis  gemman  ?  Han's  off,  I  tell  you,  'fo'  I  fo'gits 
myse'f !  You  heah  me  talkin'  ?  Hoi'  up,  Marse 
Taylor !  Stiddy  yo'se'f  on  me  !  Gimme  de  mon 
ey  !" 

At  this  the  intoxicated  old  colonel,  holding  the 
disputed  possession  aloft  in  his  clinched  hands, 
turned  upon  the  negro. 

"Who  are  you,  you  impertinent  black  pea 
cock  ?"  he  cried,  livid  with  rage.  "  One  of  the 
gang,  in  your  checkered  livery — one  of  their 
blasted  confederates  !  Out  with  him  !  Hold  ! 
Help  !" 

Overpowered  at  last  by  two  agile  little  men, 
who,  scaling  his  tall  figure  as  a  ladder,  seized  the 
treasure,  he  fell  to  the  floor  with  a  despairing 
cry  : 

"Murder!  Thieves!  My  God  !  Where's— 
where's  Caes-ur-a  ?  Caesar  !" 


Caesar  was,  for  the  moment,  non  est,  but  now 
returning,  breathless,  he  cried  : 

"  Heah  me,  marster !  I  done  flung  dat  blue- 
breeches  one  over  de  banisters.  Whar's  de  yethers? 
Gorn,  is  dey  ?  But  I'll  ketch  up  wid  'em  yit. 
Open  yo'  mouf,  Marse  Taylor,  an'  drink  dis." 

The  old  gentleman  opened  his  eyes  for  a  sec 
ond  only,  and,  shrinking  visibly,  cried  in  terror  : 

"Hands  off,  you  rascally  black  confederate — 
you  black — 

Caesar  began  to  cry. 

"  Yas,  I  is  Confedrit,  marster.  We  all  is.  You 
know  we  is.  Ain't  I  fit  wid  you  all  indu'in'  de 
wah?  Open  yo'  eyes,  marster,  an'  look  ag'in  !" 

But  he  did  not  look  again.  His  tongue  was 
heavy  as  he  said  : 

"  Here,  sir !  I  hear  him.  Come  here,  Caesar,  you 
old  fel-fl-fellow,  and  take  off  this  rasc'ly — " 

He  began  to  snore. 

Seeing  him  sleeping,  Caesar  seized  a  pillow  from 
the  divan,  and,  slipping  it  under  his  head,  peered 
cautiously  about  the  apartment.  The  gentlemen 
of  the  game  were  nowhere  visible,  but  in  the 
doorway,  his  face  in  a  broad  grin,  stood  his  friend 
the  steward. 

"  Seem  lak  de  ole  sport  got  de  wust  of  it,  ain't 
he  ?"  was  his  ill-timed  and  irreverent  greeting. 

"Ole  what?"  Caesar  moved  towards  him  with 
clinched  fist. 

"  I  say,  seem  lak  de  ole  gernman  got  de  wust  o' 
de  game,"  he  repeated. 


204 


"  Look  heah,  nigger  !  I'll  have  you  know  dis 
here  game  ain't  but  des'  started.  De  colonel's 
des'  teckin'  a  res',  an'  I'm  gwine  leave  'im  fur  a 
minute  whits'  I  tends  ter  a  little  business." 

"Yas,  you  better  go  an'  let  gemmen's  fusses 
alone.  Dat's  my  legal  advice  ter  you.  Dey  was 
a  yo'ng  man  th'owed  over  the  gyards  des'  now,  on 
dis  boat ;  an'  ef  dey  ketch  you  meddlin'  up  heah, 
dey  li'ble  ter  treat  you  lakwise." 

"  Dey  is,  is  dey  ?  Mh  -  hm  !  You  see,  I  hap 
pens  ter  know  de  gemman  what  th'owed  dat  yo'ng 
man  over  de  railin'.  He's  des'  teckin'  a  nap  yon 
der  on  de  flo' — res'in'  'isse'f  ;  an'  ef  you'll  des' 
set  down  an'  bresh  de  muskitties  off'n  'im  tell  I 
come  back,  hit'll  be  wuth  a  couple  o'  dimes  ter 
you." 

If  the  steward  took  his  pay  in  the  dollars  which 
he  found  scattered  around  the  floor,  instead  of  in 
dimes  as  agreed,  Caesar  was  none  the  wiser. 

When  presently  the  little  old  man  returned,  he 
was  clad  again  in  all  his  plantation  rags,  even  to 
the  faded  kerchief  about  his  neck.  Forgetful  of 
the  steward,  he  knelt  at  his  master's  side. 

"  Heah's  Caesar,  Marse  Taylor,"  he  said,  touch 
ing  his  shoulder.  "  Week  up,  marster,  an'  look. 
Come,  let  Caesar  he'p  you  ter  bed." 

Caesar  could  not  rouse  him,  however  ;  and  it 
was  only  when,  with  the  steward's  aid,  he  had 
lifted  him  up,  that  he  opened  his  heavy  eyes,  and, 
with  quivering  lips,  cried  : 

"Wh-why,   Caesar!     Why  didn't  you   come 


205 


before  ?  I  needed — needed  you,  you  black — black 
rascal,  you — " 

Caesar  had  119  voice  left  ;  but  by  prompt  ac 
tion,  now  no  longer  resisted,  the  two  men  had 
soon  gotten  the  old  gentleman  on  his  feet  and 
virtually  carried  him  to  his  state-room. 

The  colonel  had  lost  nothing  of  his  prestige 
in  the  steward's  regard  because  of  the  present 
incident.  Such  were  the  ways  of  many  pop 
ular  "big  men" — such  the  ups  and  downs  of 
many  gentlemen  of  his  ken  who  travelled  the 
river.  Nor  had  Caesar  lost,  but  rather  gained  in 
importance  by  establishing  his  connection  with 
Colonel  Dunbar  Taylor,  even  though  he  had 
donned,  his  honors  on  his  knees  in  a  livery  of 
rags. 

On  the  day  ensuing,  when  by  his  negative  con 
sent  and  feeble  recognition  Caesar  was  duly  in 
stalled  as  the  colonel's  body-servant  with  upper- 
cabin  privileges,  an  improved  toilet  became  ob 
viously  imperative.  Although  unwitnessed,  it 
was  a  pathetic  spectacle  when  he  proceeded  by 
slow  stages,  watching  the  effect  of  each  garment 
in  turn,  to  rearray  himself. 

The  old  gentleman  kept  his  berth  during  the 
rest  of  the  trip  ;  and  when  Caesar  felt  the  shiver 
of  the  boat,  as  she  seemed  to  steady  herself  pre 
paratory  to  landing,  he  was  seized  with  an  inter 
nal  panic.  Bills  had  come  in  for  the  colonel's 
passage  and  for  wine  and  cigars  on  that  fateful 
night  —  bills  which  by  a  little  strategy  he  had 


206 


settled  in  his  master's  name,  with  fabricated  mes 
sages  of  regret  at  the  delay ;  and  the  finances  of 
the  firm  were  very  low. 

The  silent  partner  in  the  firm  —  the  unrecog 
nized  contributor  of  both  the  money  and  the  ex 
perience —  as  he  trod  the  gang-plank  with  his 
master's  arm,  beset  by  doubt,  ignorance,  fear,  not 
knowing  which  way  to  turn,  walked  yet  with  the 
resolute  step  of  one  with  a  fixed  resolve.  This 
resolve  was,  in  the  unexpressed  phraseology  of 
his  heart,  to  "  keep  his  eyes  skinned  an'  look  out 
four  ole  marster." 

His  only  hope  lay  in  following  the  crowd.  As 
they  threaded  their  way  through  the  throng  upon 
the  levee,  the  old  man,  with  more  fervor  than  was 
his  wont,  muttered  a  prayer  like  unto  this  : 

"  O  Lor-rd,  four  Gord  sake,  lead  deze  two  po' 
ole  pilgums  an'  show  'em  whar  ter  go — " 

"What  do  you  say,  Cassar?"  asked  his  com 
panion. 

"  Who — me  ?  I  des'  hummin'  a  chune,  Marse 
Taylor." 

"And  you  are  going  to  the  St.  Charles  Hotel, 
as  I  ordered  ?" 

"  Yassir,  co'se  I  is.  Hit's  down  dis  way  a  little 
piece."  Then  mentally,  "An'  oh,  my  Gord,  for 
give  me  four  lyin,'  'caze  you  know  my  money 
wouldn't  hoi'  out  a  week  at  no  S'in'  Charles  Hotel. 
You  know  it  wouldn't,  Gord,  Yo'se'f — an'  ole 
marster  callin'  fur  champagne  all  de  time.  You 
know  his  haid  ain't  nuver  come  straight  fur  two 


207 


days,  an'  I  bleeged  ter  lie  to-night,  Gord,  an'  don't 
You  charge  me  wid  it." 

In  this  fashion,  formulating  every  thought  as  a 
prayer,  he  stumbled  blindly  on.  It  was  dark,  and 
the  city  lights  were  lit.  They  had  proceeded  a 
half-dozen  squares,  perhaps,  when  something  hap 
pened.  A  man  walking  ahead  stopped  and  read 
a  sign  upon  a  door. 

"  Furnished  rooms  to  rent,"  were  the  charmed 
words  Cassar  heard. 

Without  a  moment's  hesitation,  he  mounted 
the  narrow  steps  jutting  out  over  the  banquette 
and  raised  the  iron  knocker.  The  colonel's  pro 
test  was  disregarded. 

"  Set  down  on  de  step  a  minute,  marster,  tell  I 
go  in  an'  'quire  de  way,"  he  said,  with  a  finality 
of  tone  not  to  be  opposed. 

A  moment's  conference  with  the  copper-colored 
landlady  within — long  enough,  nevertheless,  for 
the  prepayment  of  a  week's  rent — resulted  in  her 
returning  with  Caesar  to  assure  monsieur  : 

"  Oh  yas,  'tis  de  Sen'  Charle'  Hotel,  yas,  of 
co'se — de  side  do'.  De  gentleman's  room  is  all 
prepare.  Egscuse  me,  monsieur,  if  I  assis'  you. 
Doze  step  is  so  very  much  slippy." 

And  so,  before  he  could  frame  a  protest,  the 
old  colonel  felt  himself  lifted  firmly  and  gently 
up  and  assisted  into  the  "side  door  of  the  St. 
Charles  Hotel." 

If  the  low  portal  of  this  modest  house  of 
Chambres  Garnies  fell  short  of  his  memory-picture 


208 


of  the  brilliant  rotunda  of  the  St.  Charles  Hotel, 
where  in  years  past  he  had  always  been  greeted 
by  a  convivial  welcoming  crowd,  the  discrepancy 
was  soon  forgotten  in  the  presence  of  immediate 
comfort. 

Though  among  the  less  prosperous  of  her  class, 
Ma'm  Zulime  was  an  artist  to  a  degree,  and  she 
knew  her  people.  The  gentleman  with  a  body- 
servant,  able  to  prepay,  was  instantly  recognized 
and  taken  in. 

From  its  interior,  the  apartment  in  which  our 
friends  found  themselves  might  have  been  a  mod 
est  chamber  in  any  fairly  appointed  provincial 
hotel.  Here  were  velvet  carpets  and  upholstery 
— faded,  it  is  true — gas-lights,  a  pitcher  of  ice- 
water  presented  with  a  tap  at  the  door  —  yes, 
surely,  after  all,  it  was  the  St.  Charles  Hotel. 

This  thought  one  minute,  forgetf ulness  the  next, 
now  realization  of  a  want  —  a  toddy,  less  light 
or  more,  a  cigar,  a  third  pillow,  another  blanket 
over  his  feet — a  dim  sense  of  confusion,  then  a 
snore. 

Caesar,  sitting  alone  beside  the  bed,  breathed 
a  sigh,  half  relief,  half  of  apprehension,  at  the 
sound.  The  snoring,  mingled  with  the  roar  of 
the  city  without,  seemed  a  resumption  of  the 
stentorian  breathing  of  the  boat. 

He  knew  intuitively  that  his  master's  condition 
was  serious.  He  had  seen  him  prostrate  from 
over-much  wine,  at  rare  intervals,  in  years  past ; 
but  the  symptoms  were  more  fleeting  and  differ- 


209 


ent.  He  felt  very  lonely,  and  his  little  lavender- 
clad  legs  ached.  The  situation  was  really  too 
tragic  to  contemplate  seriously. 

Rising  from  his  seat,  he  crossed  the  room,  and, 
approaching  an  old  mirror  opposite,  regarded  him 
self,  chuckling  : 

"  Well,  Caesar,  ole  gemman,  look  lak  you  in  a 
tight  place,  ef  you  is  got  on  good  clo'es.  You 
better  be  dressed  up,  you  ole  plantation  moke, 
you,  ter  match  dat  roa'in'  granjer  outside.  Des' 
lis'n  !  Z-z-z-z  !  R-r-r-r  !  Gol'  granjer  rollin'  on 
silver  wheels  !  '  Silks  a-swishin' !  Corks  a-pop- 
pin' !  Bells  an'  toot-horns  an'  whistles  all  th'owed 
in  together  !  Des'  lis'n  at  de  city  !  Lis'n  what 
it  say,  ole  man  !  '  Z-z-z  !  I  know  you  !  You's  a 
country  nigger  !  Can't  fool  me,  if  you  is  got  on 
secon'-han'  finery  !  Z-z-z  !  Ef  yer  want  ter  keep 
up  wid  me,  yer  better  walk  fas',  ole  man  !'  Dat 
what  it  say,  an'  you  better  read  yo'  lesson  right 
ter-night,  Caesar  !  Tune  yo'se'f  up  ter  de  city 
music,  an'  don't  forgit  you's  a  Taylor  nigger,  an' 
a  Dunbar  -  Taylor  nigger  at  dat.  How  much 
money  you  got  lef ,  anyhow,  Caesar  ?" 

Sitting  flat  upon  the  floor  before  the  glass,  he 
soon  produced  from  various  hiding  places  about 
his  person  a  half-dozen  rolls  of  bills,  which  he  pro 
ceeded  to  count. 

"  Well,"  he  exclaimed,  finally,  "  hit  mought  be 
better  ;  an'  den  ag'in,  it  mought  be  wus." 

Soliloquizing  in  this  fashion,  he  sat  here  until 
finally,  growing  drowsy,  he  threw  himself  back- 

14 


210 


ward  upon  the  cot  provided  for  him,  and  fell 
asleep. 

His  first  days  in  the  strange  city  were  times  of 
sore  trial.  The  old  colonel  grew  mentally  worse 
rather  than  better ;  but  it  was  not  until  a  week 
had  passed  that  Caesar  made  the  startling  dis 
covery  that  his  feet  were  dead  to  sensation  and 
he  could  not  stand. 

Though  choking  with  emotion,  the  old  man's 
exclamation  was  one  of  thanksgiving  at  the  reve 
lation. 

"  Praise  Gord,  I  say,  fur  turnin'  de  key  on  'is 
foots  tell  He  onlock  'is  haid.  Praise  Gord,  I 
say  !"  were  his  words,  uttered  with  a  sob. 

The  old  man's  constant  dread  had  been  lest  his 
charge,  difficult  and  unreasonable  enough  as  things 
were,  should  some  day  sally  forth  on  a  tour  of 
investigation.  It  was  enough  that  he  daily  swore 
against  the  new  management  of  the  St.  Charles 
Hotel,  and  demanded  delicacies  difficult  and  often 
impossible  to  procure. 

Caesar  had  soon  won  his  way  into  the  modest 
kitchen  of  Ma'm  Zulime,  who  was  pleased  to  yield 
a  corner  of  her  stove  to  the  artist  who  could  fabri 
cate  so  many  epicurean  delicacies.  And  Caesar 
was  so  funny,  so  droll,  so  entertaining  !  In  the 
evenings,  when  the  colonel  went  to  sleep  early, 
he  would  sit  on  the  floor  beside  her  and  relate 
most  marvellous  stories  of  the  magnificence  of  his 
plantation  home.  His  tales  were  like  those  of  the 
"Arabian  Nights,"  not  only  in  gorgeousness  of 


211 


coloring,  but  in  each  night's  recital  excelling  the 
preceding  in  grandeur. 

It  was  needful  that  he  should  have  some  relief 
for  the  panic  that  raged  within  him;  and  since  he 
could  not  vent  it  in  kind,  he  continued  consistent 
ly  to  translate  it  into  a  note  of  bravado.  The 
lower  the  market  -  money  dwindled,  the  funnier 
grew  his  jokes,  the  more  extravagant  his  stories. 

The  day  he  changed  his  last  twenty-dollar  bill 
at  a  game-stall,  he  was  so  facetious  over  the  trans 
action  that  the  market-folk  were  in  a  roar  of  laugh 
ter  when  he  left  them;  and  as  he  crossed  the  street 
he  stepped  rhythmically  into  a  dancing  measure 
while  he  sang  the  plantation  medley  beginning  : 

"My  white  folks  is  rich  as  a  cup  o'  cream. 

Come  along.  Miss  Nancy  ! 
Dey  money  flows  out  in  a  silver  stream. 

Come  along,  Miss  Nancy  ! 
Dey'll  give  us  all  a  dance  ev'y  Sa'ddy  night, 
An'  a  boat  on  the  river  when  de  moon  is  bright, 
An'  you  won't  know  de  diffunce  but  what  you's  white. 

Come  along,  Miss  Nancy  ! 

This  was  followed  by  a  shout  of  applause,  amid 
which  a  man  from  the  saloon  at  the  corner  threw 
the  performer  a  nickel. 

Quick  as  a  flash  he  picked  it  up  and  dropped  it 
into  his  hat,  which  forthwith  he  proceeded  to  pass 
round,  singing  as  he  went  : 

"Oh,  Nancy  Ann  is  hard  to  beat. 
Come  along,  Miss  Nancy ! 


212 


Shuffle  right  along  an'  twis'  yo'  feet. 

Come  along,  Miss  Nancy ! 
She  wears  number  'leven,  but  it  fits  her  neat, 
An'  her  mouf  is  a  rose,  an'  her  lips  is  sweet 
As  de  sugar-cane  juice  when  it  turns  to  cuite. 

Come  along,  Miss  Nancy  !" 

The  chorus  which  follows,  rendered  in  a  voice 
altered  to  suit  the  changed  jig  movement  and  end 
ing  with  a  high  kick,  was  no  mean  performance. 

"Oh,  Miss  Nancy, 
You's  my  fancy. 
You  is  de  neates' 
An'  de  fleetes' 

An'  de  sweetes' 
Gal  in  town." 

At  its  close  several  volunteered  coins  were 
thrown  towards  him ;  and  when  the  old  man 
finally  clapped  the  hat,  contents  and  all,  upon 
his  head,  and  with  a  bow  turned  homeward,  there 
was  a  new  idea  within  his  woolly  pate  that  sent 
a  fresh  spring  into  his  gait — a  bona-fide  impulse 
of  hope  untainted  by  bravado. 

The  five  coins  earned  in  as  many  minutes  by 
drawing  upon  an  inexhaustible  fund  of  planta 
tion-lore  were  answering  the  momentous  question 
of  the  immediate  future.  If  city  white  folk  would 
pay  for  such  as  this,  they  should  have  all  they 
wanted. 

His  eagerness  for  the  experiment  could  not  pos 
sess  itself  in  patience  till  the  morrow;  and  on  this 


213 


same  evening,  as  soon  as  his  charge  was  asleep, 
he  slipped  noiselessly  away  and  was  soon  prancing 
up  and  down,  singing  at  the  top  of  his  voice  be 
fore  a  gay  saloon,  now  coquetting  in  interpreta 
tion  of  a  love-ditty,  now  grotesquely  hopping  up 
and  down  as  he  sang  : 

"Ole  Mister  Frog  ain't  much  ter  sing, 
But  he  cl'ars  a  log  wid  a  single  spring." 

The  morning's  earnings  were  soon  more  than 
doubled,  and  when  Caesar  crept  on  tiptoe  into  the 
room  that  night  he  was  so  exhilarated  that  sleep 
was  impossible.  No  prospective  millionaire  after 
an  initial  success  in  Wall  Street  was  ever  more 
inflated  than  he. 

The  old  colonel  was  sleeping  heavily  when  he 
entered.  Turning  up  the  gas,  the  negro  stood 
beside  him  a  moment,  studying  his  face. 

"  I  got  good  news  fur  we  all,  marster,"  he  said, 
audibly,  yet  secure  in  the  knowledge  that  no  or 
dinary  voice  would  penetrate  that  heavy  slumber. 
"  Yo'  ole  nigger  done  struck  riches.  Look  heah!" 
He  took  from  his  hat  a  handful  of  nickels.  "  Deze 
heah  same  ole  songs  I  used  ter  sing  fur  you  on  de 
levee  done  reached  Heaven  an'  pierced  de  golden 
streets  ter  let  down  de  golden  showers.  I  ain't 
gwine  fool  you  no  mo'  now,  marster,  wid  no 
cheap  cat-fish  fur  red -snapper — no,  I  ain't ;  an' 
dat  ole  bare  porter-house  steak  bone  what  I  done 
cooked  up  wid  roun'  cuts  so  long  ter  lay  on  yo' 
plate,  I  gwine  th'ow  it  away  now,  yer  heah? 


214 


Gwine  see  ef  we  can't  work  up  de  style  o'  dis 
here  S'in'  Charles  Hotel  table — dat  I  is  !  Po'  ole 
marster  !  Des'  look  at  'im.  Ev'ything  'bout  'im 
layin'  dar  des'  as  nacbel  but  'cep*  'isse'f.  Look 
lak  whiles  Gord  was  a-teckin',  he  mought  des'  as 
well  'a'  tooken  his  appertite.  'Tis  a  hard  case, 
Lord,  ter  teck  a  man's  sense  an'  jedgmint  an' 
money,  an'  leave  'im  a  wide-awake  appertite. 
But  nemmine  ;  I'm  glad  I -done  moved  'im  back 
heah  in  dis  cheap  room,  anyhow.  Hit's  des'  as 
good  an'  two  bottles  o'  champagne  a  month  better. 
Dem's  des  de  figgers.  Po'  ole  marster !  Doctor 
seh  he  ain't  gwine  come  ter  'isse'f  no  mo',  an'  I's 
glad  of  it.  Hisse'f  done  got  too  fur  down  ter 
come  back  ter,  dat's  a  fac'.  An'  ef  he  was  ter 
come  ter  'isse'f,  de  fus'  thing  he'd  do  'd  be  ter 
discharge  me  fur  lyin' — an'  I'd  deserve  it,  too  : 
but  how'd  he  git  along?  I  could  loosen  up  'is 
laigs  wid  mullein  leaves  b'iled  down  in  lard  an' 
rubbed  in  onder  'is  knees  good.  I  could  do  it, 
don't  keer  what  de  doctor  say  ;  but  I  ain't  gwine 
do  it,  less'n  'is  haid  come  straight.  Gord  knowed 
His  business  when  He  turned  de  lock  on  bofe  de 
same  day.  Yas,  You  is,  Lord. 

Ter-morrer  I  gwine  put  on  my  ole  plantation 
clo'es  an'  go  out  an'  .dance  a  break -down  fur 
'em.  Deze  heah  blue  breeches,  I'm  tired  of 
'em,  anyway.  Dey  bags  at  de  knees  tur'ble. 
I'd  a  heap  ruther  have  pants  bag  all  over  'n 
bag  at  de  knees.  Hit  gives  a  pusson  a  ongodly 
figgur — dat  it  do.  Well,  Cresar,  you's  done  good 


215 


work  to-day,  an'  I  pats  you  on  de  haid  ;  but  you 
better  hush  talkin'  now,  ole  man,  an'  go  ter  baid — 
dat  what  you  better,  so  good-night." 

Parting  with  himself  thus,  he  lowered  the  gas, 
and,  with  slight  preparation,  was  soon  asleep. 

If  in  the  portrayal  of  Caesar's  character  that  of 
old  Colonel  Dunbar  seems  but  a  misty  outline,  it 
is  only  because  his  erst  active  and  interesting  per 
sonality  was  already  passing  into  the  shadows 
which  yet  envelop  him  when  first  we  beheld  him 
in  the  dim  moonlight  by  the  river.  It  would  be 
an  unfriendly  hand  that,  pursuing  him  through 
all  the  abnormal  developments  of  gathering  ad 
versities,  would  vividly  portray  him  in  the  depths 
of  his  humiliation.  For  every  encounter  with  his 
present  unreasonableness,  irritability,  or  selfish 
ness,  Caesar  cherished  a  hundred  tender  memories 
of  the  past. 

With  varying  success  the  old  negro  pursued  his 
new  calling,  and  in  the  course  of  several  months 

O<* 

had  become  quite  a  local  celebrity  as  street-singer 
about  the  French  market;  and  it  is  freely  said 
since,  by  those  who  knew  the  circumstances,  that 
more  than  one  tempting  offer  came  to  him  during 
this  period  to  appear  before  the  foot-lights  ;  but 
he  always  declined,  saying  his  master  was  rich — 
he  didn't  need  money. 

"I  des'  tecks  de  small  change  dee  gimme,"  he 
would  add,  "  'caze  I  so  'stravagant.  I  laks  ciggars 
an'  champagne.  Boss  won't  gimme  much  cham 
pagne  ;  'feerd  I'll  git  de  gout,  lak  he  got.  An'  I 


216 


laks  fine  onderclo'es,  too  —  des'  look;"  and,  rolling 
up  his  sleeve,  he  would  display  a  silken  under-, 
sleeve,  old  finery  of  the  colonel's,  protesting :  "  I 
des'  wears  deze  outside  plantation-cloe's  fur  style, 
dat's  all.  Dat's  de  style  o1  gemman  I  is — -planta- 
tion-riz  f  om  de  grouti  up!" 

During  this  period,  the  life-long  attachment  be 
tween  these  two  old  men,  intensified  on  one  side 
by  utter  dependence,  and  on  the  other  by  the 
very  nature  and  constancy  of  his  ministrations, 
was  strengthening,  insensibly  to  both,  into  a  tie 
that  can  be  likened  unto  nothing  less  than  the  love 
between  mother  and  child. 

Csesar  did  not  even  realize  that  he  had  grown 
to  address  his  old  master  in  "  baby-talk "  now 
adays,  nor  that,  when  he  would  approach  his 
bedside,  tray  in  hand,  the  eager  eyes  of  his  charge 
would  fill  with  tears  as  he  laughed  nervously, 
even  as  a  babe  with  tear -brimmed  eyes  crows 
aloud  as  his  mother  approaches  the  cradle. 

"  Deze  heah  mush-a-roons  is  solid  money,"  he 
would  say.  "  You  chew  'em  good  wid  yo'  gol' 
toof,  honey,"  and,  turning  away,  he  would  add  : 
"  I  wouldn't  sell  out  dat  gol'  toof  fur  nothin'. 
Hit  has  ter  stan'  fur  all  de  'fo'-de-wah  granjer, 
dat  gol'  toof  do." 

So  their  lives  drifted  for  a  brief  period  only. 

One  day,  when  Casar  approached  the  bed  with 
steaming  tray,  the  shining  tooth  of  gold  between 
the  parted  lips  was  his  only  greeting.  A  second 
stroke,  noiseless  and  mysterious  as  the  first  that 


217 


had  clipped  life's  cord  to  the  point  of  unravelling, 
had  now  cut  it  in  twain. 

An  accidental  intrusion  at  the  moment  of  the 
discovery  moved  even  Ma'm  Zulime  to  close  the 
door  softly  and  go  away  sobbing  ;  and  that  night, 
as  she  stood  at  the  fence,  talking  to  her  neigh 
bor,  she  declared  : 

"  Me,  I  never  see  somet'ing  lique  dat.  For  two 
hours  dat  ole  nigger  ees  cryne  sem  lique  a  mud- 
der  loss  a  chile.  An'  de  breakfas'  he  ees  prepare, 
he  ees  just  set  it  outside,  so  ;  an'  me,  I  haf  to  eat 
it  myself — fine  chevrette  all  pack  in  mash  ice,  an' 
poach  egg  on  toas',  an'  chop  an'  coffee — haf  to  eat 
it  all  myself  or  give  it  to  de  flies.  So  now  I  haf 
to  change  tenant  again.  Well,  'tis  a  hard  worl'. 
Was  a  good  tenant,  an'  I'm  goin'  charge  for  de 
full  munt' ;  biccause  a  de't',  dat  injure  yo'  house, 
yas.  Well,  hany'ow,  de  ole  nigger,  he's  got  'im 
lay  out  nice.  He's  lay  out  Protes'ant,  dough — 
no  candle,  no  nutting,  po'  man.  Well,  God  is 
good  ;  maybe  He  take  'im  so.  He  is  nutting  to 
me,  but  God  forgive  me  if  I  done  wrong — I  chris 
ten  }im  las'  week,  w'ile  'e  was  sleepin'.  I  seen 
de't'  on  'im.  Well,  I  ain't  got  much,  but  t'ank 
God  I  know  my  rilligion  ;  an'  if  I  didn',  I  blief 
some  good  Cat'lic  '11  do  dat  much  for  me  w'en  I 
was  dyin'.  De  ole  man,  he's  gone  out  now.  Blief 
maybe  ees  gone  for  license  for  buryin'.  Well, 
Ma'm  Jacques,  w'en  you  know  somebody  need  a 
room,  I  put  dat  one  down  cheap  de  first  munt', 
till  I  run  de  ghos'  out." 


218 


While  M'm  Zulime  gossipped  with  her  neigh 
bor,  Caesar,  in  his  shabby  plantation -rags,  was 
making  his  way  towards  the  saloon  near  the  mar 
ket.  After  first  outburst  of  grief,  during  which, 
sobbing  aloud,  he  had  fallen  upon  his  knees,  lain 
upon  the  floor,  hugged  his  master's  feet,  and  cried 
to  Heaven  for  mercy,  the  old  man  had  wiped  his 
face  and  proceeded  to  perform  the  last  sad  duties 
to  the  dead. 

When  he  had  lovingly  arranged  the  body  for 
burial  he  covered  the  face  with  a  square  of  mos 
quito-netting  purloined  from  the  back  of  the  bed- 
drapery,  and,  locking  the  door,  started  out  to 
make  arrangements  for  the  home  journey  ;  for 
he  would  lay  his  master  among  his  kindred  in 
the  old  Taylor  graveyard. 

He  had  tried  to  anticipate  this  crisis,  but  some 
how  he  had  failed.  Even  after  depositing  the 
colonel's  watch  at  a  certain  mont  de  pi'ete  at  the 
corner,  in  exchange  for  sixty  dollars  and  a  re 
demption-ticket,  the  augmented  sum  in  hand 
proved  inadequate  to  death's  demands. 

He  had  easily  arranged  to  work  his  own  pas 
sage  up  the  riverj  but  a  coffined  passenger  must 
pay  full  fare.  The  second-hand  furniture-dealer 
would  carry  the  casket  to  the  boat  for  half  the 
cost  of  an  undertaker's  wagon,  but  since  they 
were  going  home  where  familiar  friends  would 
meet  them,  a  handsome  burial-case  was  impera 
tive.  He  would  gladly  have  borne  it  on  his  shoul 
der  to  the  boat,  among  strangers  in  New  Orleans, 


219 


had  it  been  possible  thereby  to  add  a  bit  of  tin 
sel  to  its  decoration. 

For  a  month  past  two  rival  saloon-keepers  had 
been  offering  Caesar  tempting  sums  to  sing  ex 
clusively  at  their  doors,  but  he  had  preferred  the 
fun  of  carrying  the  crowd  with  him. 

But  to-night  he  would  capitulate.  Wiping  his 
eyes  and  tipping  back  his  hat  as  he  stepped  into 
its  blaze  of  light,  he  entered  the  first  saloon.  A 
welcoming  exclamation  greeted  him  ;  but  step 
ping  up  to  the  bar  and  displaying  a  roll  of  money, 
he  quietly  called  for  a  schooner  of  beer. 

He  had  counted  on  the  crowd  that  soon  sur 
rounded  him,  and,  as  he  calmly  emptied  his  glass, 
he  remarked  : 

"  Well,  it's  Sunday,  an'  I  ain't  nuver  is  danced 
on  Sunday  yit  ;  but  I  got'  sech  a  dancin'-fit  on 
me  ter-night,  I  gwine  ter  Tony's  coffee-house, 
whar  de  nickels  is  thick,  an'  I'm  gwine  dance  dis 
fit  off,  ef  it  tecks  me  all  night." 

Kicking  his  feet  impatiently  as  he  went,  he 
started  out,  when,  as  he  intended  he  should  do, 
the  proprietor  called  him  back.  In  a  few  mo 
ments  he  had  been  persuaded  to  accept  prepay 
ment  in  cash,  to  sing  every  evening  of  a  week 
following  exclusively  at  this  corner — the  arrange 
ment  not  to  interfere  with  the  usual  collections, 
and  the  performance  to  begin  to-night. 

As  he  folded  the  few  bills  in  with  the  others 
and  involuntarily  measured  the  roll  against  the 
home  needs,  he  began  to  feel  that  singing  would 


220 


come  hard  to-night.  Still,  he  did  not  hesitate 
beyond  a  lordly  demand  for  another  drink,  when, 
with  a  bow,  he  faced  the  company. 

It  was  only  when  some  one  said,  "  Sing  '  All 
alone  on  the  shore  to-night,'"  one  of  his  most 
popular  performances,  that  for  a  moment  he  felt 
in  danger  of  utter  failure.  A  sudden  convulsive 
sob  surprised  him  before  he  could  master  him 
self  ;  but,  quickly  pulling  his  hat  down  over  his 
eyes  and  reaching  in  his  pocket  for  his  "  bones," 
he  struck  out  into  a  dance,  saying  to  himself  as 
he  went :  "  Hush,  you  ole  fool,  you — dance  ! 
Dance,  I  say,  Caesar,  dance  !  Up  wid  yo'  foots  ! 
Kick  de  air !" 

He  never  did  the  corn -shucking  break -down 
better  ;  and  when  it  was  finished  he  volunteered 
and  with  a  steady  voice  sang  "  I'm  all  alone  on 
the  shore  to-night"  with  such  tenderness  that 
several  old  men,  listening,  wiped  their  eyes  and 
turned  away. 

Having  fulfilled  his  engagement  here  with  un 
usual  profit,  Caesar  turned  ostensibly  homeward, 
only  to  proceed  by  a  circuitous  route  to  the 
rival  saloon,  where  he  unblushingly  entered  into 
a  similar  contract,  to  take  effect  on  the  mor 
row. 

It  may  seem  strange  that  these  two  men  should 
have  trusted  him  to  this  extent ;  but  the  manifest 
advantage  of  commanding  him,  should  he  come 
into  the  neighborhood,  made  it  worth  the  risk, 
which  indeed  seemed  small,  in  face  of  the  well- 


221 


feigned  reluctance  with  which  the  money  was 
accepted. 

It  was  late  now,  but  yet  Caesar  made  another 
detour  to-night,  a  journey  involving  no  little  per 
plexity. 

The  deaths  in  the  Taylor  family  had,  time  im 
memorial,  been  matters  of  honorable  announce 
ment  in  the  local  papers  ;  and  the  family  record 
in  the  old  Bible  in  the  colonel's  trunk  held  print 
ed  tributes  opposite  each  sad  entry  during  a  pe 
riod  of  more  than  half  a  century.  When  Caesar 
should  carry  the  old  Book  to  the  minister  at  home, 
to  have  the  last  name  registered  upon  its  tablet, 
he  would  not  be  without  the  printed  accompani 
ment  to  paste  against  it. 

At  no  point  were  his  ignorance  and  sagacity, 
his  loyalty  and  unscrupulousness,  his  pride  and 
poverty,  more  pathetically  displayed  than  in  this 
visit  to  the  newspaper  office.  After  much  parley 
ing,  however,  he  declared  himself  satisfied  with 
the  notice,  which  should  pay  a  concise  tribute  to 
the  families  of  Taylor  and  Dunbar,  flatteringly 
note  the  colonel's  rank  as  a  Confederate  officer, 
and  close  by  cordially  inviting  friends  to  the 
funeral,  from  the  family  city  residence,  on  the 
morrow  at  five  o'clock. 

True,  by  this  hour  Caesar  would  be  steaming 
up  the  river,  with  a  copy  of  the  paper  folded  in 
his  pocket ;  but  so  much  the  better.  When  the 
implied  funeral  cortege  should  fail  to  materialize, 
even  though  there  should  be  no  interested  wit- 


222 


nesses,  he  would  be  glad  to  be  out  of  the  way. 
He  would  prefer,  too,  to  be  unembarrassed  by 
any  facts  in  the  account  he  should  give  at  home 
of  the  funeral  procession. 

After  breakfast  the  next  morning,  Ma'm  Zu- 
lime  donned  her  best  black  gown,  in  simple  re 
spect  to  the  presence  of  death  beneath  her  roof  ; 
and  though  its  dread  embodiment  lay  in  a  back 
upper  chamber,  she  walked  softly  about  the 
house,  and  started  at  every  sudden  noise.  So, 
when  upon  the  abrupt  stopping  of  wheels  before 
her  door  there  followed  the  clang  of  its  iron 
knocker,  she  called  the  names  of  a  half-dozen  at 
tributes  of  divinity  in  a  breath,  and  with  con 
sciously  beating  heart  opened  the  door. 

Somehow,  although 'her  mysterious  tenant  had 
never  had  a  visitor,  she  was  not  surprised  when 
the  foremost  of  the  three  well-dressed  men  who 
stood  without  pronounced  the  name  of  Colonel 
Duubar  Taylor. 

It  was  nearly  dark  in  the  evening  when  Ma'm 
Zulime  stood  again  talking  with  Ma'm  Jacques 
at  the  back  fence. 

"Tell  de  troot,  Ma'm  Jacques,"  she  was  say 
ing,  "'twas  jes'  good-luck  dey  di'n  'ketched  me 
wid  nutting  but  my  camisole.  'Twas  hot  to-day, 
yas,  fo'  dat  alapaca  dress  ;  but  I  say  to  myself, 
<Po'  man,  I'll  do  dat  much  fo'  heem,  hany'ow — 
put  a  black  dress  till  dey  carry  eeni  out — I  do  dat 
fo'  whatever  rillation  he  ain't  got ;  he  had,  any- 
'ow,  once,  a  mudder — so,  w'en  fo'  nobody  else,  I 


223 


do  it  fo'  her.'  So,  like  I  tell  you,  I  hadn'  no  mo'n 
jes'  hook  de  las'  heye  on  my  belt,  w'en  I  lis'n 
de  w'eel  stop,  an'  I  look  hout  an'  see  t'ree  fine 
gen'lemans  read  somet'ing  in  de  paper  an'  look  de 
nombre  to  my  'ouse.  Who  you  t'ink  ees  put  dat 
de't'- notice  in  de  paper,  Ma'm  Jacques  ?  I  ax  de 
ol'  nigger,  an'  he  tell  he  know  nutting  'bout  it — 
he  say  some  o'  doze  gen'ral  an'  capt'in  wa't  fight 
in  de  war  wid  eem,  maybe  dey  hear  it  an'  pay 
it  in.  Well,  maybe  'tis  true,  biccause  doze  was 
sure  fo'  fine  carri'geful  o'  gen'lemans  wa't  come 
at  de  funeral. 

"  Well,  w'en  doze  t'ree  gen'lemans  ees  come  in 
an'  set  down,  an'  I  tole  dat  de  ol'  colonel  an'  de 
nigger  is  live  in  my  back  yard  since  six  munt', 
dey  was  'stonish,  yas,  an'  dey  question  me  close 
till  I  tell  all  since  de  foginnin'.  Wile  we  talk 
so,  de  ol'  nigger  he's  come  in,  an'  maybe  you  t'ink 
it's  a  lie  I'm  tellin'  you,  Ma'm  Jacques,  but  God 
can  strike  me  dead  if  two  o'  doze  fash'nible  mans, 
w'en  dey  see  de  ol'  nigger,  dey  begin  to  cry  an' 
talk  nutting  but  war-time.  So  much  was  true, 
hany'ow,  dat  de  ol'  nigger  always  tell  me — 'ow  he 
was  fight  in  de  war.  Well,  m'am,  terreckly  all 
de  four  ees  gone  up-stairs  an'  talk,  talk,  talk  wid 
de  ol'  man  ;  an'  w'en  dey  go  hout,  de  ol'  nigger 
ees  gone  too,  an'  bimeby  he  ees  come  back,  dressed 
everything  new — hat,  shoes,  all — an'  ees  got  a  goP 
watch,  too  ;  an'  me,  I  blief — mais,  I  am  not  sure, 
but  I  blief — 'twas  de  watch  of  de  colonel. 

"  Well,  Ma'm  Jacques,  since  doze  strange  mans 


224 


ees  come,  everyt'ing  ees  change  ;  even  de  coffin 
w'ere  ee  was  layin'  ees  sen'  back,  an'  dey  put  eem 
again  in  wan  fine  wan  wid  all  silver  handle,  an' 
yo'self  ees  see  de  fine  corbillard  wid  doze  high 
pompon  w'at  ees  come  carry  eem  at  de  boat. 
Wen  I  was  so  big,  dey  had  halways  doze  big 
pompon  on  all  de  fine  char  funetre.  Now  dey 
come  back  again.  Well,  dey  got  fashion  f o'  every 
t'ing.  I  blief,  w'en  I  get  to  heaven — if  I'm  dat 
lucky  —  I'll  fin'  some  fashion,  too,  honly  every 
body  can  follow :  not  like  here  —  some  got  no 
chance. 

"  Well,  I'll  miss  dat  ol'  nigger,  yas.  Since  de 
t'ird  day  he  come  I  ain't  never  make  no  fire, 
needer  bring  a  bucket  o'  water.  Dat  ol'  man,  he's 
got  a  black  skin,  'tis  true  ;  but  his  insides  ees 
w'ite,  you  take  my  word.  Well,  you  see  me  so, 
Ma'm  Jacques,  I  hate  to  go  in  de  'ouse  to-night. 
Fo'  w'at  you  can't  come  an'  set  down  wid  me  till 
ees  time  fo'  make  de  gas  ?  Come,  an'  hany'ow  I'll 
ope  a  couple  o'  ginger-pop.  "Pis  warm,  yas ;  I 
blief  it  mdke  rain  to-morrow." 

Ma'm  Zulime  had  spoken  the  truth  when  she 
said  that  since  the  arrival  of  the  three  gentlemen 
everything  had  been  changed. 

When  they  had  met  the  old  negro  beside  his 
master's  body  in  the  upper  gallery  chamber  of 
death  there  had  been  little  left  for  him  to  tell ; 
for  if  M'am  Zulime  had  told  half  the  pitiful  story, 
the  other  half  was  written  all  about  the  cheap 
appointments  of  the  mean  little  apartment  above. 


225 


To  "change  everything,"  to  send  an  old  com 
rade  honorably  and  decently  home  to  his  last  rest, 
and  his  faithful  friend  and  servant  proud  and  re 
joicing  on  his  melancholy  journey,  was  the  easy 
result  of  a  moment's  whispered  conference. 

The  home  funeral,  prearranged  by  telegraph, 
was  all  that  Csesar's  fondest  ambition  could  have 
desired ;  and  as  his  withered  little  figure  turned 
away  from  the  covered  grave,  lonely  and  heart- 
sore  though  he  was,  he  trod  the  earth  with  head 
erect,  in  full  consciousness  of  the  dignity  that  had 
descended  to  him  as  "  de  las'  one  o'  de  Dunbar- 
Taylor  a'stokercy  lef  ter  tell  de  tale." 

Such,  indeed,  were  his  exact  words,  as,  sur 
rounded  by  a  gaping  circle  of  his  plantation  com 
rades,  he  told  over  and  over  again  the  marvellous 
tale  of  his  master's  social  triumphs  in-  the  great 
city. 

"  Why,  sir,"  he  would  say,  "  you  -  all  on  dis 
plantation  ain't  nuver  rightly  knowed  who  Marse 
Dunbar  Taylor  was.  Why,  I  kin  go  myself  down 
yonder  ter  Noo  'Leans  to-morrer,  an'  kin  draw  my 
five  dollars  a  day — dey  lookin'  fur  me  now  ter  fill 
a  ingagement  in  two  big  houses — 

"Five  dollars  a  day  ter  do  what  sort  o'  work?" 
asks  an  old  man  near,  with  doubtful  credulity. 

"  Work  !  Who  you  talkin'  ter,  nigger?  I  ain't 
done  a  stroke  o'  work  sence  I  struck  de  city. 
Look  at  my  han's — sof  as  a  baby's.  Wages  ter 
walk  up  an'  down  an'  talk  an'  sing  an'  spit,  ef  I 
feel  lak  it — dat  what  dey'd  pay  me  wages  fur.  I 

15 


226 


seen  de  day  I  been  doin'  dat-a-way,  walkin'  up  an' 
down,  singin',  wid  my  ban's  in  my  pockets,  an' 
dey'd  th'ow  money  at  me  in  de  streets — " 

"  Umh  !  Shet  yo'  mouf ,  Caesar.  What  'd  dey 
tb'ow  money  at  you  fur  ?" 

"  Caze  dey  knowed  I  b'longed  ter  ol'  Colonel 
Dunbar  Taylor,  an'  live  wid  him  in  de  big  stone 
house  whar  de  two  big  iron  dogs  stan'  fo'  de  do', 
an'  de  fountains  play  in  de  gyard'n — an'  dey 
knowed  I  useter  wait  on  de  table  when  all  de 
guvners  an'  mayors  useter  teck  champagne  din 
ner  wid  we-all,  while  de  brass  ban'  played  'fo'  de 
do' ;  dat  what  dey  th'owed  money  at  me  fur — 
fur  cormplimint  ter  Colonel  Dunbar  Taylor !  Yer 
don't  reck'n  dey  th'owed  it  at  me  'count  o'  my  ole 
swivelled-up  black  face,  is  yer  ?  Ef  any  o'  y'-all 
is  ca'culatin'  ter  teck  yo'  black  faces  ter  de  city 
fur  targets  fur  'em  ter  th'ow  money  at,  I  'vize  you 
ter  stay  home — dat  I  does." 


AUNT   DELPHI'S   DILEMMA 


AUNT  DELPHI'S  DILEMMA 
B  plantation  UnctDent 

OLD  "Aunt  Delphi,"  a  superannuated  crone  of 
two  hundred  avoirdupois  or  thereabouts,  was  a 
privileged  character  on  Honeyfield  plantation. 

A  pensioner  upon  the  bounty  of  her  former 
owners,  she  had  not  an  earthly  responsibility  ex 
cepting  the  self-assumed  care  of  a  thriving  vege 
table  garden  and  poultry -yard,  the  proceeds  of 
which,  sold  to  her  benefactors,  supplied  her  with 
pocket-money. 

Aunt  Delphi  had  been  a  belle  in  colored  society 
in  her  day  and  generation,  and,  if  the  whole  truth 
must  be  told,  the  history  of  her  matrimonial  al 
liances  is  rather  a  tangled  skein. 

She  was  now  a  widow  as  truly  as  she  had  ever 
been  a  wife,  excepting  on  a  first  occasion,  when 
the  legal  bond  had  proven  all  too  brittle  for  her' 
playful  handling.  Since  old  age  with  its  wither 
ing  processes  had  overtaken  her,  Aunt  Delphi  had 
surrendered  all  her  waning  vitalities  to  religion, 
thus  springing  at  a  single  bound  from  the  posi 
tion  of  a  warning  to  that  of  a  Christian  example 
on  the  plantation.  So,  again,  is  the  angle  of  re 
flection  equal  to  the  angle  of  incidence.  The 


230 


woman  so  recently  notorious  as  a  fisher  of  men 
for  the  mere  sport  of  the  angling  had  become  a 
quoter  of  Scripture,  a  spiritual  exhorter,  even  a 
visitor  among  the  sick  and  the  dying,  a  closer  of 
the  eyes  of  the  dead. 

Since  her  conversion,  her  new  peace  had,  as  was 
befitting  it  should,  seemed  to  permeate  all  her  hu 
man  relations,  and  she  regarded  the  whole  world 
benignly,  both  upward  and  downward.  She  car 
ried  counsel  and  delicacies  to  the  humble  cabins 
of  the  distressed  or  ailing  with  the  same  serene, 
beaming  face  that  she  bore  when  she  wended  her 
way  to  the  great  house  with  a  nest  of  empty  tin 
cans  upon  her  arm,  ostensibly  to  seek  the  advice 
of  "  Ole  miss  "  upon  some  trivial  subject. 

The  advice  was  given  or  withheld  according  to 
the  indications,  but  the  cans  were  always  taken 
from  her  to  the  pantry,  filled,  and  returned. 

These  visits  were  generally  paid  just  before 
dinner,  and  after  her  conference  with  "the  white 
folks  "  the  old  woman  would  repair  to  the  kitchen 
"to  he'p  thoo  de  dish-washin',"  though  she  al 
ways  consented  with  becoming  hesitation  to  re 
main  for  a  social  meal  with  her  chum,  the  cook. 

As  the  usual  interval  between  these  social  over 
tures  was  a  week  or  ten  days,  Mrs.  Stanley  was 
somewhat  surprised  one  summer  morning  to  see 
Delphi  trudging  up  the  front  walk  three  days 
after  a  former  visit ;  and  as  she  approached,  a  most 
mournful  expression  of  face  declared  that  she  was 
in  great  distress  of  mind.  Her  ample  lips  were 


231 


puckered  into  a  royal  purple  flower  set  upon  the 
most  doleful  of  faces.  She  carried  no  petition  in 
the  shape  of  can  or  basket,  and  as  she  laboriously 
seated  herself  on  the  inverted  top  of  the  sewing- 
machine  beside  her  mistress,  the  purple  blossom 
declared  her  to  be  in  great  tribulation. 

"Look  lak  I  can't  see  my  way  straight  dis 
morn  in',  mistus.  Won't  you  please,  ma'am,  gim 
me  a  little  drap  o'  some'h'n'  'nother  ter  raise  my 
cour'ge  tell  I  talks  ter  yer?" 

The  servant  was  called  to  bring  some  water, 
whereupon,  with  an  indescribable  play  of  features 
that  resembled  nothing  so  much  as  summer  light 
ning,  Aunt  Delphi  turned  upon  her  mistress  a 
look  half  reproach,  half  protest. 

"  What  I  wants  wid  water,  mistus  ?"  she  plead 
ed.  "You  knows  yo'se'f,  ef  you  po's  water  in 
anything  hit  weakens  it  down.  I's  weakened 
down  too  much  now.  My  cour'ge  needs  strenken- 
in',  mistus,  an'  you  knows  dey  ain't  no  cour'ge  in 
water." 

The  "courage"  being  duly  supplied  from  a  bot 
tle  labelled  "Blackberry  Cordial,"  Aunt  Delphi 
proceeded  with  her  story.  "You  knows  jestice 
an'  'ligion,  ole  miss,"  she  resumed,  "  an'  I  wants 
ter  insult  you  'bout  how  I  gwine  ac'  in  dis  heah 
trouble  what's  come  ter  me.  How  far  down  do  a 
step-mammy's  juties  corndescend  ?" 

The  young  ladies  of  the  family  had  by  this  time 
drawn  their  chairs  near,  and  the  old  woman  had 
looked  from  one  face  to  another  as  she  put  her 


232 


question.  As  no  one  in  the  least  understood  her 
meaning,  she  proceeded  to  explain. 

"  Well,  yer  see,  babies,  I  got  a  letter  f'om  the 
pos'-orfice  las'  night,  an'  Yaller  Steve  he  read  it 
out  ter  me,  an'  hit's  f'oni  my  step-son,  Wash.  I 
ain't  heerd  tell  o'  Wash  sence  'fo'  de  wah;  but  he 
done  written  ter  tell  me  dat  he  done  got  married, 
an'  he  got  two  sets  o'  twin  babies,  an'  now  he's 
wife  she  up  an'  dies,  an'  he  got  de  unmotherless 
twins  on  'is  han's.  An'  Wash  he  say,  bein'  as  I 
allus  tole  'im  I'd  be  a  good  mother  ter  'im  ef  he'd 
commit  me — he  say  he  gwine  trus'  me  ter  raise 
dem  sets  o'  twins." 

Fumbling  in  her  pocket,  she  presently  produced 
a  yellow  envelope. 

"  You  say  there  are  four  children  ?"  said  her 
mistress,  by  way  of  filling  a  pause. 

"  Yas,  mistus,  two  full  sets  o'  twins,  'cordin'  ter 
what  he  say.  Wash  allus  was  a  double-dealin'  boy." 

It  was  hard  to  repress  a  rising  smile,  but  the 
old  woman's  disturbance  of  soul  was  so  genuine 
that  her  mistress  remarked,  sympathetically, 

"  But  Wash  is  only  your  step-son,  if  I  remem 
ber  rightly,  Delphi  ?" 

"  Oh,  yas,  'm.  He's  my  fus'  husban's  boy.  He's 
pa's  a-livin'  down  in  de  Ozan  bottom  now.  He 
an'  me  we  been  parted  too  long  ter  talk  about, 
an*  you  know,  mistus,  I  been  married  an'  unmar 
ried,  off  'n'  on,  sence  den.  But,  in  co'se,  all  deze 
circumstancial  go-betweens  dey  don't  meek  Wash 
ain't  my  step-son.  Yer  see,  mistus,  I  stood  up  in 


233 


de  church  icid  his  daddy,  an'  I  wants  tcr  do  my 
juty  by  Wash,  mo'  inspecial  caze  I  done  put  'im 
out'n  de  house  on  de  'count  o'  'im  a-raisin1  his  han' 
ter  me,  an  'I  'ain't  nuver  is  laid  eyes  on  'im  sence. 
An'  sence  I  foun'  peace  in  'ligion  I  'ain't  done 
nothin'  but  pray  Gord  ter  lemme  meek  up  wid 
Wash,  an'  now  seem  lak  de  answer  done  come  ; 
but  hit's  come  loaded  up  purty  heavy."  She 
sighed,  even  wiped  her  eyes,  as  she  continued  : 
"  I  'ain't  see  de  way  I  kin  raise  dem  f o'  twins — 
no,  I  'ain't." 

"  How  old  are  they  ?"  asked  several  at  once. 

"  He  'ain't  sign  dey  ages  down  by  no  special 
figgur,  but,  de  way  de  letter  run,  I  knows  dey's 
des  'bout  runnin'  roun'  an'  cryin'  size.  Cat's  des 
whar  de  trouble  come  in.  Yer  see  I  got  nigh 
onter  two  honderd  fryin'-size  chickens  in  my  lit 
tle  yard,  an'  ef  I  has  ter  turn  fo'  cryin'-size  chil- 
len  in  'mongst  'em,  hit  '11  be  tur'ble.  'Caze  I  'ain't 
nuver  is  seed  a  cryin'-size  yit  wha'  'ain't  love  ter 
chase  de  fryin'-size.  Tell  me,  chillen,  an'  ole  miss 
— you  knows  'ligion  an'  jestice — how  fur  down 
do  de  step-mammy's  juties  corndescend  ?" 

The  question  seemed  so  absurd  that  it  was  with 
difficulty  that  Mrs.  Stanley,  by  assuming  her  look 
of  greatest  severity,  forbade  even  an  exchange  of 
glances  between  her  daughters.  The  old  woman, 
in  the  meantime,  had  presented  the  letter  to  one 
of  the  young  ladies  to  read.  It  proved  to  be 
in  substance  as  she  had  quoted,  and  was  signed 
"  Yore  Truely  Son,  Gorge  Washington  Brown." 


234 


"  Dat  soun'  mighty  sweet — '  your  truly  son,' " 
said  the  old  woman,  as  she  heard  the  words  read 
— "  dat  soun'  mighty  sweet — an'  yit — an'  yit  I 
'sputes  de  jestice.  I  wants  ter  be  cancelized  wid 
Wash,  an'  yit  when  he  come  ter  me,  fo'-in-han'  like, 
an'  offer  me  de  whole  load — tell  de  trufe,  I  don' 
know.  Seem  like  we  mought  'vide  up  de  'sporn- 
serbility  some  way,  an'  I'd  even  gin  'im  he's  ch'ice 
o'  sets.  Den  agin,  look  lak  dat  ain't  riverind  jes 
tice  nuther,  bein'  as  I  ain't  nothin'  but  he's  step- 
mammy,  an'  ain't  in  no  way  'spornserble  fo'  dem 
twins.  Ef  I  was  h'es  reel  nachel  mammy,  in  co'se 
I'd  be,  as  yer  mought  say,  backhandedly  'sporn 
serble  fur  'em.  But  as  I  is,  I  don't  see  it — no,  I 
don't — less'n  me  a  puttin'  'im  out'n  de  house  in 
a  manner  aggervated  'im  ter  it.  I  'ain't  done  no- 
thin'  but  walk  de  flo'  all  de  endurin'  night  an' 
pray,  an'  I  'ain't  see  no  light  yit." 

"  I'll  attend  to  this  whole  matter  for  you,  Del 
phi,"  says  her  old  mistress,  taking  advantage  of  a 
first  real  pause.  "  Let  me  write  to  Wash  for  you, 
telling  him  that  you  will  take  one  of  the  older 
children,  but  that  as  you  are  getting  old,  you 
cannot  do  more." 

The  smile  of  relief  and  gratitude  that  spread 
over  the  old  woman's  face  was  really  touching  as 
she  answered  :""  Thank  Gord,  ole  Miss !  I  b'lieve 
myse'f  dat's  de  full  jestice.  I  sho'  do.  I  tries  ter 
squandei*  my  shubshance  on  righteous  livin',  good 
as  I  kin,  des  lak  de  preacher  say.  An'  you  write 
de  letter,  mistus,  an'  tell  'im  I  say  seek  de  Lord 


235 


while  it's  day."  And  with  profuse  expression  of 
gratitude,  Aunt  Delphi  proceeded  homeward  with 
a  lighter  step  and  a  cleared  brow. 

"  This  arrangement  will  be  just  the  thing,"  said 
her  mistress,  as  she  moved  away.  "  I  have  been 
trying  to  secure  a  child  to  live  with  the  old  woman 
and  wait  on  her,  but  the  mothers  on  the  place 
scorn  to  have  their  children  serve  one  of  their 
own  color.  If  old  Delphi  is  at  once  appeasing 
her  conscience  and  securing  needed  service,  I 
shall  congratulate  myself  upon  helping  her  in 
the  matter." 

The  letter  was  duly  written. 

It  was  about  two  weeks  later  when  one  morn 
ing  after  breakfast  Aunt  Delphi  presented  herself 
again  at  the  fi'ont  steps  of  the  great  house. 

Hesitating  here  and  casting  upward  to  the 
group  of  ladies  who  sat  within  the  hall  door  the 
most  woe -begone  of  faces,  she  groaned  aloud. 
Then,  in  a  voice  actually  sepulchral  in  its  deep 
intensity,  she  exclaimed  : 

"  Why'n't  yer  ax  me  some'hV,  chillen  ?  Quiz- 
zify  me.  Put  de  questioms.  Ax  me  whar  is  I 
trapped  deze  heah  black  rabbits." 

With  this  she  lifted  into  view  four  little  black 
children,  starting  them  up  the  steps  before  her, 
while  she  followed,  actually  groaning  aloud. 

"  Why'n't  yer  talk,  chillen  ?"  she  continued, 
addressing  the  ladies,  still  keeping  the  children 
ahead  of  her.  "  Why'n't  yer  ax  me  is  I  see 
double,  ur  is  you  see  double,  ur  is  Wash  behave 


236 


'issc'f   double?"    And   throwing   herself    into   a 
chair,  Aunt  Delphi  fell  to  actual  weeping. 

The  little  girls,  absurdly  alike  even  as  to  size, 
though  their  ages  were  about  four  and  five  years 
respectively,  stood  in  a  row,  each  sucking  her 
thumb,  and  in  no  wise  embarrassed  by  the  pres 
ence  of  strangers  ;  and  yet  when  in  a  moment  one 
of  them  began  slowly  to  back  from  the  company, 
they  all  followed,  until,  touching  the  wall,  they 
sat  down  in  a  row. 

"  Are  these  Wash's  children  ?"  asked  her  mis 
tress,  as  soon  as  she  could  command  her  voice. 

"  Yas,  Lord,"  she  moaned,  swaying  her  body  to 
and  fro. 

"  And  so  he  brought  them  all.  Where  is  he  ? 
When  did  they  come  ?" 

"Hoi'  on,  mistus,"  she  exclaimed,  waving  her 
hand  to  command  silence.  "  Hoi'  on  an'  lemme 
start  straight.  In  de  searchin'  hour  o'  midnight 
las'  night,  when  eve'y  hones'  pusson  was  buried  in 
Christian  sleep,  heah  come  '  a-rap-a-tap-tap  !'  on 
my  kyabin  do',  des  easy  lak  an'  sof',  lak  some 
h'n'  sperityal  ;  an'  I  retched  up  an'  stricken  a 
match,  an'  open  de  do'  an'  listen,  an'  I  'ain't  heerd 
no  soun'  but  'cep'  one  o'  deze  heah  onslcepless 
morkin'-birds  chantin'  out  secon'-han'  music,  an' 
I  commenced  ter  wonder  is  a  pecker-wood  done 
riz  me  out'n  my  baid  ter  listen  to  free  music  ;  an' 
all  de  time  my  eyes  was  turned  high,  an'  I  nuver 
'spicioned  nothin',  tell  right  onder  my  foots  deze 
heah  fo'  p'intedly  matched  babies  come  a-walkin' 


237 


in,  des  lak  you  see  'ern  now,  ev'y  one  a-suckin'  'er 
hV." 

"  But  where  did  they  come  from  ?  Did  Wash 
bring  them  ?" 

"  What  ails  you,  chillen,  dat  you  don't  heah 
me  what  I  say.  I  don't  know  no  mo'n  dey  say, 
an'  dey  'ain't  showed  speech  yit." 

"And  you  haven't  seen  Wash?" 

"  Ain't  I  talkin'  straight,  baby  ?  I  say  I  'ain't 
seed  nothin',  neither  heerd  nothin'.  Tell  de  truf e, 
'cep'n'  fur  de  co'n-brade  dey  done  et,  I'd  look  fur 
dem  babies  ter  vanige  out'n  my  sight  des  lak  dey 
come.  Co'se  I  done  set  'em  down  ter  Wash,  bein' 
as  he  done  'nounced  'isse'f  in  de  twins  trade.  But 
eh  Lord  !  What  I  gwine  do  wid  'em?  An'  de 
las'  one  o'  'em  cryin'-sizes  !" 

The  ladies  call  the  children  to  them,  and  by 
dint  of  coaxing  learn  that  they  "  corned  wid  dad 
dy — to  find  mammy,"  and  that  they  answer  to  the 
endearing  names  of  Shug,  Pud,  Hun,  and  Babe. 
The  conventional  list  of  names  had  apparently 
not  been  taxed  for  their  designation. 

It  is  evidently  a  deeply  laid  scheme.  Wash's 
letter  was  only  a  ruse  to  ascertain  whether  the 
old  woman  Delphi  still  lived  or  not,  and  he  had 
cast  his  children  upon  her. 

Poor  old  Delphi,  chafing  under  the  imposition, 
and  overcome  with  the  weight  of  so  heavy  a  re 
sponsibility,  sat  softly  weeping,  while  the  ladies 
assured  her  that  she  should  be  relieved. 

Wash,  the    poltroon,  had   covered   his   tracks 


238 


well.  No  one  on  the  place  had  seen  or  heard 
him,  and  the  wheels  whose  tracks  approached  the 
fence  had  soon  returned  to  the  old  ruts,  and  left 
no  trace  of  their  course. 

Delphi's  cabin  was  the  same  in  which  Wash 
had  lived  as  a  child.  This  fact  Mrs.  Stanley  had 
unwittingly  betrayed  in  her  letter,  in  which  she 
pleaded  its  single  room  as  added  excuse  for  her 
not  taking  more  than  one  child. 

During  the  two  weeks  following  this,  letters 
of  inquiry  concerning  his  lordship,  the  delectable 
sire  George  Washington  Brown,  were  sent  to 
leading  persons  in  the  town  from  whence  his 
letter  had  been  posted  ;  but  though  several  citi 
zens  of  color  bore  this  identical  distinguished  if 
not  distinguishing  name,  no  trace  of  the  father  of 
the  twins  was  found. 

A  party  of  negroes  en  route  for  Kansas  had 
recently  passed  within  five  miles  of  Honeyfield 
plantation.  Presumably  Wash  had  been  of  this 
number.  Starting  out  to  begin  life  afresh,  he  had 
no  doubt  made  good  his  proposal  to  his  step 
mother  to  "  let  by-gones  be  by-gones." 

A  month  passed,  and  no  news  had  come  of  the 
recreant  father,  neither  had  the  sensation  caused 
by  Aunt  Delphi's  sudden  acquisition  of  family 
begun  to  abate.  The  children,  through  whom 
she  had  been  an  object  of  interest  far  and  near, 
and  whose  presence  had  brought  generous  gifts 
from  all  directions  to  the  little  cabin,  were  still 
there  awaiting  developments,  and  pending  a  de- 


239 


cision  as  to  the  best  disposition  to  be  made  of 
them. 

Feeling  that  the  matter  had  better  be  arranged 
and  the  old  woman  relieved,  Mrs.  Stanley  decided 
one  morning  to  call  at  the  little  cabin  herself  to 
talk  the  matter  over.  She  had  found  good  homes 
ready  to  welcome  two  of  the  children,  and  would 
take  a  third  herself  until  she  could  be  permanent 
ly  provided  for. 

She  found  Aunt  Delphi  sitting  on  the  door-step, 
holding  one  of  the  four  on  either  knee,  while  the 
other  two  sat  on  the  ground  at  her  feet.  All  were 
munching  huge  chunks  of  corn-bread  and  chatter 
ing  like  magpies.  At  sight  of  her  mistress  the  old 
woman  slipped  the  children  to  the  ground,  and, 
with  elaborate  apologies  for  the  state  of  her  cabin, 
which  was  indeed  strewn  with  trash,  improvised 
rag  babies,  and  pallets,  she  proceeded  to  wipe  off 
a  chair  with  her  apron  before  presenting  it. 

"  Have  you  decided  which  one  of  the  little  girls 
you  are  going  to  keep  ?"  Mrs.  Stanley  asked,  after 
the  usual  interchange  of  civilities. 

The  old  woman  had  seated  herself  opposite  her 
mistress,  and  at  the  question  she  rolled  her  eyes 
mysteriously  a  moment  before  answering.  Final 
ly  she  said :  "I  b'lieve  you's  a  min'-reader,  mistus, 
I  sho  does,  caze  you  done  read  out  de  subjec'  dat's 
been  on  my  min'  all  day ;  but  yer  'ain't  read  it 
straight,  ole  miss — no,  yer  'ain't."  Turning,  she 
looked  fondly  upon  the  children  and  chuckled. 
"  Des  look  how  happy  dey  is  !"  she  said.  "  Dey 


240 


des  as  happy  as  a  nes'  o'  kittens,  dat  dey  is  !  Why, 
mistus,  I  been  overrun  wid  cats  all  my  life,  des 
caze  I  couldn't  say  de  drowndin'  ur  pizenin'  word 
ter  air  kitten  what  look  ter  me  in  weakness.  I 
done  let  a  chicken-devourin'  rat  out'n  a  trap  des 
caze  I  ketched  a  prayer  in  'is  eye.  De  way  a  cock 
roach  run  fur  'is  life  meek  me  draw  back  my  bro- 
gan  an'  let  'im  go.  How  is  I  gwine  part  wid  any 
o'  dem  human  babies  ?" 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Delphi  ?  You  surely  can 
not  wish  to  keep  four  children  to  bring  up  at  your 
time  of  life.  It  would  be  absurd." 

"Hoi'  on,  mistus,  hoi'  on — don't  go  so  fas'  ! 
Dem  chillen  done  preached  a  heap  o'  sermons  ter 
me,  an'  dey  all  got  de  same  tex' ;  an'  dat  tex'  hit 
splains  out  a  new  set  o'  argimints  ev'y  time.  How 
yer  reckon  I  feels,  mistus,  when  I  looks  at  dem 
babies  an'  see  how  p'intedly  dey  favors  dey 
gramper?  Lookin'  at  'em  ev'y  day  tecks  my 
min'  way  back  ter  my  co'tin'  days,  when  love 
soun'  in  my  ears  lak  a  music  chune  picked  on  a 
banjer.  An'  when  I  looks  back  on  my  life  I  see 
how  I  loved  de  endurin'  soun'  so  much  I  ain't 
keer  who  play  de  music.  So  de  by-gone  pictur's 
come  back  ter  me  one  by  one  ;  but  de  one  dat 
stay  wid  me  is  de  one  wha'  show  me  my  fus'  hus- 
ban',  Dan  ;  an'  I  see  how  I  done  trifled  wid  'im, 
an'  de  quar'l  we  had,  when  I  sassed  back  an'  go 
one  better'n  him  ev'y  time  ('caze  we  was  bofe 
high-temprate).  An'  den  I  'member  de  fight  he 
fit  wid  Abum  Saunders,  'caze  Abum's  love  chune 


241 


please  my  hearin'.  Den  come  back  a  yether 
pictur  —  ole  Dan  de  way  my  min'  see  'im  now, 
'cripit  an'  gray,  maybe,  an'  lonesome  an'  failin', 
an'  me  his  lawful  wedded  wife,  an'  all  o'  deze 
heah  peart  little  gran'babies  o'  bis'n  right  heah — 
next  do'  ter  'im,  de  way  Gord  reckon  space.  Dat's 
de  way  de  sermon  read,  an'  deze  onconscious  in- 
fams  dey  preaches  it  at  me,  unbeknowinst,  ter 
meek  up  wid  dey  gramper,  an?  I  ain't  gwine  zist 
de  sperit  no  mo\  I  gwine  meek  de  movemint  ter 
be  cancelized  wid  Dan ;  an'  ef  he's  sick,  I  gwine 
nuss  'im;  an'  ef  he's  cranky  an'  fussy,  I  gwine  shet 
my  mouf  an'  say  nothin  ;  but  I  gwine  'back  ter1  im 
— dat  is,  ef  he'll  teck  me !  An'  ef  you  got  a  argi- 
mint  agin  it,  mistus,  don't  spressify  it  in  my  hear- 
in',  please,  ma'am,  'caze  my  min''  made  up" 

Mrs.  Stanley  realized  that  it  would  be  some 
what  inconsistent  with  her  own  professions  to  op 
pose  a  reconciliation  between  husband  and  wife, 
and  as  soon  as  she  could  recover  from  her  surprise 
at  the  unexpected  turn  the  affair  was  taking  she 
wished  the  old  woman  all  possible  success  and 
happiness  in  the  step  she  had  resolved  to  take. 
Indeed,  before  she  had  left  the  cabin  she  had  her 
self  written  at  her  dictation  the  letter  the  old 
wife  sent  the  next  day  to  the  husband  from  whom 
she  had  been  estranged  for  thirty  years  or  more. 

A  few  days  afterward  there  was  an  important 
arrival  at  Delphi's  cabin.  The  letter  had  brought 
the  old  husband  back  to  the  feet  of  his  early  love. 

A  week  later  the  departure  took  place.     A  ca- 

16 


242 


pacious  plantation  wagon  was  piled  high  with 
bedding,  boxes,  and  sundry  household  belongings, 
laid  upon  a  foundation  of  chicken  -  boops,  out  of 
which  curious  feathered  heads  gazed  in  alternate- 
eyed  wonder  at  the  unusual  proceeding.  On  the 
summit  of  the  edifice  sat  the  old  couple  in  a  verita 
ble  rose  garden  of  little  bobbing  pink  sun-bonnets. 

They  were  going  to  the  old  man's  home. 
Delphi  had  made  her  formal  adieux  at  the  house, 
and  wept  her  parting  tears,  but  through  them  the 
sun  of  a  new  happiness  was  shining. 

As  the  wagon  moved  out  the  gate  the  ladies 
waved  good-bye  from  the  gallery  of  the  great 
house,  and  the  old  man,  perceiving  them,  lifted 
his  hat,  bowing  his  body  in  a  manner  that  was 
distinctly  courtly. 

Aunt  Delphi  up  to  this  moment  had  been  ab 
sorbed  in  her  maternal  task  of  safely  seating  the 
children,  but  now  realizing  that  the  supreme  mo 
ment  of  last  leave-taking  was  come,  she  threw  one 
arm  around  her  old  husband,  waving  the  other 
high  in  air  as  she  began  to  sing.  The  wagon 
moved  slowly  down  the  road,  and  as  the  early  sun 
coming  through  the  pines  covered  it  at  intervals,  it 
gleamed  in  the  light,  a  bright  bouquet  of  color. 
An  occasional  gust  of  wind  brought  snatches  of  her 
song  even  while  the  wagon  was  but  a  speck  of  color 
in  the  vista,  and  the  effect  was  much  heightened 
by  the  sound  of  a  second  voice,  a  wiry  high  ten 
or,  playing  all  around  the  wind-wafted  words — 

"...  to  part  no  mo' — no  mo'." 


DUKE'S   CHKISTMAS 


DUKE'S   CHRISTMAS 

"You  des  gimme  de  white  folks's  Christmus- 
dinuer  plates,  time  dey  git  thoo  eatin',  an'  lemme 
scrape  'em  in  a  pan  an'  set  dat  pan  in  my  lap  an' 
blow  out  de  light  an'  go  it  bline !  Hush,  honey, 
hush,  while  I  shet  my  eyes  now  an'  tas'e  all  de 
samples  what  'd  come  out'n  dat  pan — cramberries, 
an'  tukkey-stuffin'  wid  puckons  in  it,  an'  ham  an' 
fried  oyscher  an' — an'  minch-meat,  an'  chow-chow 
pickle  an' — an'  jelly  !  Umh  !  Don'  keer  which- 
a-one  I  strack  fust — dey  all  got  de  Christmas 
seasonin !" 

Old  Uncle  Mose  closed  his  eyes  and  smiled, 
even  smacked  his  lips  in  contemplation  of  the  im 
aginary  feast  which  he  summoned  at  will  from 
his  early  memories.  Little  Duke,  his  grandchild, 
sitting  beside  him  on  the  floor,  rolled  his  big  eyes 
and  looked  ti-oubled.  Black  as  a  raven,  nine  years 
old  and  small  of  his  age,  but  agile  and  shrewd  as 
a  little  fox,  he  was  at  present  the  practical  head 
of  this  family  of  two. 

This  state  of  affairs  had  existed  for  more  than 
two  months,  ever  since  a  last  attack  of  rheuma 
tism  had  lifted  his  grandfather's  leg  upon  the 
chair  before  him  and  held  it  there. 


246 


Duke's  success  as  a  provider  was  somewhat 
phenomenal,  considering  his  size,  color,  and  lim 
ited  education. 

True,  he  had  no  rent  to  pay,  for  their  one- 
roomed  cabin,  standing  on  uncertain  stilts  out 
side  the  old  levee,  had  been  deserted  during  the 
last  high-water,  when  Uncle  Mose  had  "  tooken 
de  chances"  and  moved  in.  But  then  Mose  had 
been  able  to  earn  his  seventy-five  cents  a  day  at 
wood-sawing;  and  besides,  by  keeping  his  fish 
ing-lines  baited  and  set  out  the  back  and  front 
doors  —  there  were  no  windows  —  he  had  often 
drawn  in  a  catfish,  or  his  shrimp-bag  had  yield 
ed  breakfast  for  two. 

Duke's  responsibilities  had  come  with  the  win 
ter  and  its  greater  needs,  when  the  receding  wa 
ters  had  withdrawn  even  the  small  chance  of  land 
ing  a  dinner  with  hook  and  line.  True,  it  had 
been  done  on  several  occasions,  when  Duke  had 
come  home  to  find  fricasseed  chickens  for  dinner; 
but  somehow  the  neighbors'  chickens  had  grown 
wary,  and  refused  to  be  enticed  by  the  corn  that 
lay  under  Mose's  cabin. 

The  few  occasions  when  one  of  their  num 
ber,  swallowing  an  innocent  -  looking  grain,  had 
been  suddenly  lifted  up  into  space,  disappearing 
through  the  floor  above,  seemed  to  have  impressed 
the  survivors. 

Mose  was  a  church -member,  and  would  have 
scorned  to  rob  a  hen-roost,  but  he  declared  "  when 
strange  chickens  come  a-f oolin'  roun'  bitin'  on  my 


247 


fish -lines,  I  des  twisses  dey  necks  ter  put  'em 
out'n  dey  misery." 

It  had  been  a  long  time  since  he  had  met  with 
any  success  at  this  poultry-fishing,  and  yet  he  al 
ways  kept  a  few  lines  out. 

He  professed  to  be  fishing  for  crayfish — as  if 
crayfish  ever  bit  on  a  hook  or  ate  corn!  Still,  it 
eased  his  conscience,  for  he  did  try  to  set  his 
grandson  a  Christian  example  consistent  with  his 
precepts. 

It  was  Christmas  Eve,  and  the  boy  felt  a  sort  of 
moral  responsibility  in  the  matter  of  providing  a 
suitable  Christmas  dinner  for  the  morrow.  His 
question  as  to  what  the  old  man  would  like  to  have 
had  elicited  the  enthusiastic  bit  of  reminiscence 
with  which  this  story  opens.  Here  was  a  poser! 
His  grandfather  had  described  just  the  identical 
kind  of  dinner  which  he  felt  powerless  to  procure. 
If  he  had  said  oysters,  or  chicken,  or  even  turkey, 
Duke  thought  he  could  have  managed  it;  but  a  pan 
of  rich  fragments  was  simply  out  of  the  question. 

"  Wouldn't  you  des  as  lief  have  a  pone  o'  hot 
aig-bread,  gran'dad,  an' — an' — an'  maybe  a  nice 
baked  chicken — ur — ur  a—  " 

"  TJr  a  nothin',  boy!  Don't  talk  to  me !  I'd  a 
heap  'd  ruther  have  a  secon'-han'  white  Christmus 
dinner  'n  de  bes'  fus'-han'  nigger  one  you  ever 
seed,  an'  I  ain't  no  spring -chicken,  nuther.  I 
done  had  'spe'unce  o'  Christmus  dinners.  An' 
what  you  talkin'  'bout,  anyhow?  Whar  you 
gwine  git  roas'  chicken,  nigger?" 


248 


"  I  don'  know,  less'n  I'd  meek  a  heap  o'  money 
to-day ;  but  I  could  sho'  git  a  whole  chicken  ter 
roas'  easier'n  I  could  git  dat  pan  full  o'  goodies 
you's  a-talkin'  'bout. 

"Is  you  gwine  crawfishin'  to-day,  gran'daddy ?" 
he  continued,  cautiously,  rolling  his  eyes.  "  Gaze 
when  I  cross  de  road,  terreckly,  I  gwine  shoo  off 
some  o'  dem  big  fat  hens  dat  scratches  up  so  much 
dus'.  Dey  des  a  puffec'  nuisance,  scratchin'  dus' 
clean  inter  my  eyes  ev'y  time  I  go  down  de  road." 

'*  Dey  is,  is  dey  ?  De  nasty,  impident  things ! 
You  better  not  shoo'  none  of  'em  over  heah,  less'n 
you  want  me  ter  wring  dey  necks — which  I  botin' 
ter  do  ef  dey  pester  my  crawfish-lines." 

"Well,  I'm  gwine  now,  gran'dad.  Ev'ything 
is  done  did  an'  set  whar  you  kin  reach — I  gwine 
down  de  road  an'  shoo  dem  sassy  chickens  away. 
Dis  here 'bucket  o'  brick-dus'  sho'  is  heavy,"  he 
added,  as  he  lifted  to  his  head  a  huge  pail. 

Starting  out,  he  gathered  up  a  few  grains  of 
corn,  dropping  them  along  in  his  wake  until  he 
reached  the  open  where  the  chickens  were ;  when, 
making  a  circuit  round  them,  he  drove  them  slow 
ly  until  he  saw  them  begin  to  pick  up  the  corn. 
Then  he  turned,  whistling  as  he  went,  into  a  side 
street,  and  proceeded  on  his  way. 

Old  Mose  chuckled  audibly  as  Duke  passed  out, 
and  baiting  his  lines  with  corn  and  scraps  of  meat, 
he  lifted  the  bit  of  broken  plank  from  the  floor, 
and  set  about  his  day's  sport. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Chicken,  I'm  settin'  deze  heah  lines 


249 


fur  crawfish,  an'  ef  you  smarties  come  a-f  oolin'  roun' 
'em,  I  gwine  punish  you  'cordin'  ter  de  law.  You 
hcah  me !"  He  chuckled  as  he  thus  presented  his 
defence  anew  before  the  bar  of  his  own  conscience. 

But  the  chickens  did  not  bite  to-day  —  not  a 
mother's  son  or  daughter  of  them — though  they 
ventured  cautiously  to  the  very  edge  of  the  cabin. 

It  was  a  discouraging  business,  and  the  day 
seemed  very  long.  It  was  nearly  nightfall  when 
Mose  recognized  Duke's  familiar  whistle  from  the 
levee.  And  when  he  heard  the  little  bare  feet 
pattering  on  the  single  plank  that  led  from  the 
brow  of  the  bank  to  the  cabin  door,  he  coughed 
and  chuckled  as  if  to  disguise  a  certain  eager 
agitation  that  always  seized  him  when  the  little 
boy  came  home  at  night. 

"Here  me," Duke  called,  still  outside  the  door; 
adding  as  he  entered,  while  he  set  his  pail  be 
side  the  old  man,  "How  you  is  to-night,  gran'- 
dad?" 

"  Des  po'ly,  thank  Gord.  How  you  yo'se'f,  my 
man?"  There  was  a  note  of  affection  in  the  old 
man's  voice  as  he  addressed  the  little  pickaninny, 
who  seemed  in  the  twilight  a  mere  midget. 

"An'  what  you  got  dyah?"  he  continued,  turn 
ing  to  the  pail,  beside  which  Duke  knelt,  lighting 
a  candle. 

"Picayune  o'  light-brade,  an'  lagnappe*  o'  salt," 
Duke  began,  lifting  out  the  parcels,  "an'  pica 
yune  o'  molasses  an'  lagnappe  of  coal  ile — ter  rub 
yo'  laig  wid — heah  hit  in  de  tin  can;  an' picayune 
*  Pronounced  Ian-yap. 


250 


o'  coffee  an'  lagnappe  o'  matches  —  heah  dey  is, 
fo'teen  an'  a  half,  but  de  half  ain't  got  no  fizz  on 
it.  An'  deze  heah-  in  de  bottom,  dey  des  chips  I 
picked  up  'long  de  road." 

"An'  you  ain't  axed  fur  no  lagnappe  fo'  yo'- 
self,  Juke.  Whyn't  you  ax  fur  des  one  lagnappe 
o'  sugar-plums,  baby,  bein's  it's  Christmus?  Yo' 
ole  gran'dad  ain't  got  nothin'  fur  you,  an'  you 
know  to-morrer  is  sho'  'nough  Christmus,  boy. 
I  ain't  got  even  ter  say  a  crawfish  bite  on  my 
lines  to-day,  much  less'n  some'h'n'  fittin'  fur  a 
Christmus  gif.  I  did  set  heah  an'  whittle  you  a 
little  whistle,  but  some'h'u'  went  wrong  wid  it. 
Hit  won't  blow.  But  tell  me,  how's  business  ter- 
day,  boy  ?  I  see  you  done  sol'  yo'  brick-dus'  ?" 

"  Yas  sir,  but  I  toted,  it  purty  nigh  all  day  fo'  I 
is  sol'  it.  De  folks  wharever  I  went,  dey  say  no 
body  don't  want  to  scour  on  Christmus  Eve.  An' 
one  time  I  set  it  down  an' made  three  nickels  cut- 
tin'  grass  an'  holdin'  a  white  man's  horse,  an'  dat 
gimme  a  res'.  An'  I  started  out  ag'in,  an'  I  walked 
inter  a  big  house  an'  ax  de  lady  ain't  she  want  ter 
buy  some  pounded  brick.  An',  gran'dad,  you  know 
what  meek  she  buy  it?  Gaze  she  seh  my  bucket  is 
mos'  as  big  as  I  is,  an'  ef  I  had  de  grit  ter  tote  it 
clean  ter  her  house  on  Christmus  Eve,  she  seh  I 
sha'n't  pack  it  back — an'  she  gimme  a  dime  fur  it, 
too,  stid  a  nickel.  An'  she  gimme  two  hole-in-de- 
middle  cakes,  wid  sugar  on  'em.  Heah  dey  is." 
Duke  took  two  sorry-looking  rings  from  his  hat 
and  presented  them  to  the  old  man.  "  I  done  et 


251 


de  sugar  off  'em,"  he  continued.  "  Gaze  I  knowed 
it  'd  give  you  de  toofache  in  yo'  gums.  An'  I 
tol'  'er  what  you  say,  gran'dad  !" 

Mose  turned  quickly. 

"  What  you  tol'  dat  white  lady  I  say,  nigger  ?" 

"  I  des  tol'  'er  what  you  say  'bout  scrapin'  de 
plates  inter  a  pan." 

Mose  grinned  broadly.  "  Is  you  had  de  face 
ter  tell  dat  strange  white  'oman  sech  talk  as  dat  ? 
An'  what  she  say  ?" 

"  She  des  looked  at  me  up  an'  down  fur  a  min 
ute,  an'  den  she  broke  out  in  a  laugh,  an'  she  seh  : 
'  You  sho'  is  de  littles'  coon  I  ever  seed  out  fora- 
gin'  !'  An'  wid  dat  she  seh  :  *Ef  you'll  come 
roun'  to-morrer  night,  'bout  dark,  I'll  give  you  as 
big  a  pan  o'  scraps  as  you  kin  tote.' " 

There  were  tears  in  the  old  man's  eyes,  and  he 
actually  giggled. 

"  Is  she  ?  Well  done  !  But  ain't  you  feerd 
you'll  los'  yo'self,  gwine  way  down  town  at  night?" 

"  Los'  who,  gran'dad  ?  You  can't  los'  me  in  dis 
city,  so  long  as  de  red-light  Pertania  cars  is  runnin'. 
I  kin  ketch  on  berhine  tell  dey  fling  me  off,  den 
teck  de  nex'  one  tell  dey  fling  me  off  ag'in — an' 
hit  ain't  so  fur  dat-a-way." 

"  Does  dey  fling  yer  off  rough,  boy  ?  Look  out 
dey  don't  bre'k  yo'  bones  !" 

"  Dey  ain't  gwine  crack  none  o'  my  bones. 
Sometimes  de  drivers  kicks  me  off,  an'  sometimes 
dey  cusses  me  off,  tell  I  lets  go  des  ter  save  Gord's 
name — dat's  a  fac'." 


252 


"  Dat's  right.  Save  it  when  you  kin,  boy.  So 
she  gwine  scrape  de  Christmus  plates  fur  me,  is 
she  ?  I  wonder  what  sort'  o'  white  folks  dis  here 
tar-baby  o'  mine  done  strucken  in  wid,  anyhow  ? 
You  sho'  dey  reel  quality  white  folks,  is  yer, 
Juke  ?  Gaze  I  ain't  gwine  sile  my  mouf  on  no 
po'  white-trash  scraps." 

"  I  ain't  no  sho'er  'n  des  what  I  tell  yer,  gran'- 
dad.  Ef  dey  ain't  quality,  I  don'  know  northin' 
't  all  'bout  it.  I  tell  yer  when  I  walked  roun'  dat 
yard  clean  ter  de  kitchen  on  dem  flag-stones  wid 
dat  bucket  o'  brick  on  my  hade,  I  had  ter  stop 
an'  ketch  my  bref  fo'  I  could  talk,  an'  de  cook,  a 
sassy,  fat,  black  lady,  she  would  o'  sont  me  out, 
but  de  madam,  she  seed  me  'erse'f,  an'  she  tooken 
took  notice  ter  me,  an'  tell  me  set  my  bucket 
down,  an'  de  yo'ng  ladies,  beatin'  aigs  in  de 
kitchen,  dey  was  makin'  spote  o'  me,  too — ax'  me 
is  I  weaned  yit,  an'  one  ob  'em  ax  me  is  my  nuss 
los'  me  !  Den  dey  gimme  deze  heah  hole-in-de- 
middle  cakes,  an'  some  reesons.  I  des  fetched 
you  a  few  reesons,  but  I  done  et  de  mos'  ob  'em 
— I  ain't  gwine  tell  you  no  lie  'bout  it." 

"  Dat's  right,  baby.  I'm  glad  you  is  et  'em — 
des  so  dey  don't  cramp  yer  up — an'  come  'long 
now  an'  eat  yo'  dinner.  I  saved  you  a  good  pan 
o'  greens  an'  meat.  What  else  is  you  et  ter-day, 
boy  ?" 

"  De  ladies  in  de  kitchen  dey  gimme  two  burnt 
cakes,  an'  I  swapped  half  o'  my  reesons  wid  a 
white  boy  fur  a  biscuit — but  I  sho'  is  hongry." 


253 


"  Yas,  an'  you  sleepy,  too — I  know  you  is." 

"  But  I  gvvine  git  up  soon,  gran'dad.  One  mar 
ket-lady  she  seh  ef  I  come  early  in  de  mornin'  an' 
tote  baskits  home,  she  gwine  gimme  sonie'h'n' 
good  ;  an'  I'm  gwine  ketch  all  dem  butchers  an' 
fish  -  ladies  in  dat  Mag'zine  markit  '  Christmus 
gif  !'  An'  I  bet  yer  dey'll  gimme  sonie'h'n'  ter 
fetch  home.  Las'  Christmus  I  got  seven  nickels 
an'  a  whole  passel  o'  marketiu'  des  a-ketchin'  'em 
Christmus-gif '.  Deze  heah  black  molasses  I  brung 
yer  home  to-night — how  yer  like  'em,  gran'dad  ?" 

"  Fust-rate,  boy.  Don't  yer  see  me  eatin'  'em? 
Say  yo'  pra'rs  now,  Juke,  an'  lay  down,  caze  I 
gwine  week  you  up  by  sun-up." 

It  was  not  long  before  little  Duke  was  snoring 
on  his  pallet,  when  old  Mose,  reaching  behind 
the  mantel,  produced  a  finely -braided  leather 
whip,  which  he  laid  beside  the  sleeping  boy. 

"  Wush't  I  had  a  apple  ur  orwange  ur  stick  o' 
candy  ur  some'h'n'  sweet  ter  lay  by  'im  fur  Christ 
mus,"  he  said,  fondly,  as  he  looked  upon  the  lit 
tle  sleeping  figure.  "  Reck'n  I  mought  bile  dem 
molasses  down  inter  a  little  candy — seem  lak  hit's 
de  onlies'  chance  dey  is." 

And  turning  back  to  the  low  fire,  Mose  stirred 
the  coals  a  little,  poured  the  remains  of  Duke's 
"picayune  o'  molasses"  into  a  tomato -can,  and 
began  his  labor  of  love. 

Like  much  of  such  service,  it  was  for  a  long 
time  simply  a  question  of  waiting  ;  and  Mose 
found  it  no  simple  task,  even  when  it  had  reached 


254 


the  desired  point,  to  pull  the  hot  candy  to  a  fair 
ness  of  complexion  approaching  whiteness.  When, 
however,  he  was  able  at  last  to  lay  a  heavy,  cop 
per-colored  twist  with  the  whip  beside  the  sleep 
ing  boy,  he  counted  the  trouble  as  nothing  ;  and 
hobbling  over  to  his  own  cot,  he  was  soon  also 
sleeping. 

The  sun  was  showing  in  a  gleam  on  the  river 
next  morning,  when  Mose  called,  lustily, "  Week 
up,  Juke,  week  up  !  Christmus  gif,  boy,  Christ- 
mus  gif !" 

Duke  turned  heavily  once ;  then,  catching  the 
words,  he  sprang  up  with  a  bound. 

"  Christmus  gif,  gran'dad  !"  he  returned,  rub 
bing  his  eyes ;  then  fully  waking,  he  cried, 
"  Look  onder  de  chips  in  de  bucket,  gran'dad." 

And  the  old  man  choked  up  again  as  he  pro 
duced  the  bag  of  tobacco  over  which  he  had  ac 
tually  cried  a  little  last  night,  when  he  had  found 
it  hidden  beneath  the  chips  with  which  he  had 
cooked  Duke's  candy. 

"  I  'clare,  Juke,  I  'clare  you  is  a  caution,'"  was 
all  he  could  say. 

"  An'  who  gimme  all  deze  ?"  Duke  exclaimed, 
suddenly  seeing  his  own  gifts. 

"I  don'  know  nothin'  't  all  'bout  it,  less'n  ole 
Santa  Glaus  mought  o'  tooken  a  rest  in  our  mud 
chimbley  las'  night,"  said  the  old  man,  between 
laughter  and  tears. 

And  Duke,  the  knowing  little  scamp,  cracking 


255 


his  whip,  munching  his  candy  and  grinning,  re 
plied  : 

"  I  s'pec'  he  is,  gran'dad  ;  an'  I  s'pec'  he  come 
down  an'  b'iled  up  yo'  nickel  o'  molasses,  too,  ter 
meek  me  dis  candy.  Tell  -  yer,  dis  whup,  she's 
got  a  daisy  snapper  on  'er,  gran'dad  !  She's  wuth 
a  dozen  o'  doze  heah  white-boy  ^o'^ps,  she  is  !" 

The  last  thing  Mose  heard,  as  Duke  descended 
the  levee  that  morning,  was  the  crack  of  the  new 
whip;  and  he  said,  as  he  filled  his  pipe,  "De  idee 
o'  dat  little  tar-baby  o'  mine  fetchin'  me  a  Christ- 
mus  gif  !" 

It  was  past  noon  when  Duke  got  home  again, 
bearing  upon  his  shoulder,  like  a  veritable  little 
Santa  Claus  himself,  a  half-filled  coffee-sack,  the 
joint  results  of  his  service  in  the  market  and  of 
the  munificence  of  its  autocrats. 

The  latter  had  apparently  measured  their  gra 
tuities  by  the  size  of  their  beneficiary,  as  their 
gifts  were  very  small.  Still,  as  the  little  fellow 
emptied  the  sack  upon  the  floor,  they  made  quite 
a  tempting  display.  There  were  oranges,  apples, 
bananas,  several  of  each  ;  a  bunch  of  soup-greens, 
scraps  of  fresh  meat — evidently  butcher's  "trim 
mings" — odds  and  ends  of  vegetables  ;  while  in 
the  midst  of  the  melee  three  live  crabs  struck  out 
in  as  many  directions  for  freedom. 

They  were  soon  landed  in  a  pot ;  while  Mose, 
who  was  really  no  mean  cook,  was  prepai'ing  what 
seemed  a  sumptuous  mid-day  meal. 

Late   in  the  afternoon,  while  Mose  nodded  ia 


256 


his  chair,  Duke  sat  in  the  open  doorway,  stuffing 
the  last  banana  into  his  little  stomach,  which  was 
already  as  tight  as  a  kettle-drum.  He  had  cracked 
his  whip  until  he  was  tired,  but  he  still  kept 
cracking  it.  He  cracked  it  at  every  fly  that  lit 
on  the  floor,  at  the  motes  that  floated  into  the 
shaft  of  sunlight  before  him,  at  special  knots  in 
the  door -sill,  or  at  nothing,  as  the  spirit  moved 
him.  A  sort  of  holiday  feeling,  such  as  he  felt  on 
Sundays,  had  kept  him  at  home  this  afternoon. 
If  he  had  known  that  to  be  a  little  too  full  of  good 
things,  and  a  little  tired  of  ci'acking  whips  or  toot 
ing  horns  or  drumming  was  the  happy  condition 
of  most  of  the  rich  boys  of  the  land  at  that  iden 
tical  moment,  he  could  not  have  been  more  content 
than  he  was.  If  his  stomach  ached  just  a  little, 
he  thought  of  all  the  good  things  in  it,  and  was 
rather  pleased  to  have  it  ache — just  this  little. 
It  accentuated  his  realization  of  Christmas. 

As  the  evening  wore  on,  and  the  crabs  and  ba 
nanas  and  molasses  -  candy  stopped  arguing  with 
one  another  down  in  his  little  stomach,  he  found 
himself  thinking,  with  some  pleasure,  of  the  pan  of 
scraps  he  was  to  get  for  his  grandfather,  and  he 
wished  for  the  hour  when  he  should  go.  He  was 
glad  when  at  last  the  old  man  waked  with  a  start 
and  began  talking  to  him. 

"  I  been  wushin'  you'd  week  up  an'  talk,  gran'- 
dad,"  he  said,  "  'ca/e  I  wants  ter  ax  yer  what's  all 
dishere  dey  say  'bout  Christmus  ?  When  I  wus 
comin'  'long  ter-day  I  stopped  in  a  big  chu'ch,  an' 


257 


dey  was  a  preacher-man  standin'  up  wid  a  white 
night  -  gown  on,  an'  he  seh  dishere's  our  Lord's 
birf-day.  I  heerd  'im  seh  it  myse'f.  Is  dat  so  ?" 

"  Cose  it  is,  Juke.  Huccome  you  ax  me  sech 
ignunt  questioms?  Gimme  dat  Bible,  boy,  an' 
lemme  read  you  some  'ligion." 

Mose  had  been  a  sort  of  lay-preacher  in  his  day, 
and  really  could  read  a  little,  spelling  or  stum 
bling  over  the  long  words.  Taking  the  book  rev 
erently,  he  leaned  forward  until  the  shaft  of  sun 
light  fell  upon  the  open  page ;  when  with  halting 
speech  he  read  to  the  little  boy,  who  listened  with 
open-mouthed  attention,  the  story  of  the  birth  at 
Bethlehem. 

"An'  look  heah,  Juke,  my  boy,"  he  said,  final 
ly,  closing  the  book,  "hit's  been  on  my  min'  all 
day  ter  tell  yer  I  ain't  gwine  fishin'  no  mo'  tell  de 
high -water  come  back  —  you  heah?  'Gaze  yer 
know  somebody's  chickens  mought  come  an'  pick 
up  de  bait,  an'  I'd  be  'bleeged  ter  kill  'em  ter  save 
'em,  an'  we  ain'  gwine  do  dat  no  mo',  me  an'  you. 
You  heah,  Juke  ?"  Duke  rolled  his  eyes  around 
and  looked  pretty  serious. 

"  Yas,  sir,  I  heah,"  he  said. 

"  An'  me  an'  you,  we  done  made  dis  bargain  on 
de  Lord's  birf-day— yer  heah,  boy? — wid  Gord's 
sunshine  kiverin'  us  all  over,  an'  my  han'  layin' 
on  de  page.  Heah,  la}'  yo'  little  han'  on  top  o' 
mine,  Juke,  an'  promise  rne  you  gwine  be  a  square 
man,  so  he'p  yer.  Dat's  it.  Say  it  out  loud,  an' 
yo'  ole  gran'dad  he  done  said  it,  too.  Wrop  up 

17 


'258 

dem  fishin'-lines,  now,  an'  th'ow  'em  up  on  de  raf 
ters.  Now  come  set  down  heah,  an'  lemme  tell 
yer  'bout  Christmus  on  de  ole  plantation.  Look 
out  how  you  pop  dat  whup  'crost  my  laig  !  Dat's 
a  reg'Iar  horse-fly  killer,  wid  a  coal  o'  fire  on  'or 
tip."  Duke  laughed. 

"  Now  ban'  me  a  live  coal  fur  my  pipe.  Dishere 
terbacca  you  brung  me,  hit  smokes  sweet  as  sugar, 
boy.  Set  down,  now,  close  by  me — so.'1" 

Duke  never  tired  of  his  grandfather's  reminis 
cences,  and  he  crept  up  close  to  the  old  man's  knee 
as  the  story  began. 

"When  de  big  plantation -bell  used  ter  ring  on 
Christmus  mornin',  all  de  darkies  had  to  march 
up  ter  de  gre't  house  fur  dey  Christmus  gif's  ;  an' 
us  what  wucked  at  de  house,  we  had  ter  stau'  in 
front  o'  de  fiel' -ban's.  An'  atter  ole  marster  axed 
a  blessin',  an'  de  string-ban'  play,  an'  we  all  sing 
a  song — air  one  we  choose — boss,  he'd  call  out  de 
names,  an'  we'd  step  up,  one  by  one,  ter  git  our 
presents  ;  an'  ef  we'd  walk  too  shamefaced  ur  too 
'boveish,  he'd  pass  a  joke  on  us,  ter  set  ev'ybody 
laughin'. 

"  I  ricollec'  one  Christmus-time  I  was  co'tin' 
yo'  gran'ma.  I  done  had  been  co'tin'  'er  two 
years,  an'  she  belt  'er  head  so  high  I  was  'feerd  ter 
speak.  An'  when  Christmus  come  an'  I  marched 
up  ter  git  my  present,  ole  marster  gimme  my  bun 
dle  an'  I  started  back,  grinnin'  lak  a  chessj^-cat, 
an'  lie  calt  me  back  an'  he  say  :  '  Hoi'  on,  Moses,' 
he  say,  'I  got  'nother  present  fur  you  ter-day. 


259 


Heah's  a  finger-ring  I  got  fur  you,  an'  ef  it  don't 
fit  you,  I  reckon  hit'll  fit  Zephyr — you  know  yo' 
gran'ma,  she  was  name  Zephyr.  An'  wid  dat  he 
run  his  thumb  in  'is  pocket  an'  fotch  me  out  a 
little  gal's  ring — " 

"  A  gol'  ring,  gran'dad  ?" 

"No,  boy,  but  a  silver  ring — ginniwine  Ger 
man  silver.  Well,  I  wush't  you  could  o'  heerd 
dem  darkies  holler  an'  laugh  !  An'  Zephyr,  ef 
she  hadn't  o'  been  so  yaller,  she'd  o'  been  red  as 
dat  sky  yonder,  de  way  she  did  blush  buff." 

"  An'  what  did  you  do,  gran'dad  ?" 

"  Who,  me  ?  Dey  warn't  but  des  one  thing  fur 
me  to  do.  I  des  gi'n  Zephyr  de  ring,  an'  she  ax 
me  is  I  mean  it,  an' — an'  I  ax  her  is  she  mean  it, 
an' — an'  we  bofe  say — none  o'  yo'  business  what 
we  say  !  What  you  lookin'  at  me  so  quizzical  fur, 
Juke  ?  Ef  yer  wants  ter  know,  we  des  had  a  wed- 
din'  dat  Christmus  night — dat  what  we  done — 
an'  dat's  huccome  you  got  yo'  gran'ma. 

"  But  I'm  talkin'  'bout  Christmus  now.  When 
we'd  all  go  home,  we'd  open  our  bundles,  an'  of 
all  de  purty  things,  cm'  funny  things,  an'  jokes 
you  ever  heerd  of,  dey'd  be  in  dem  Christmus 
bundles — some'h'n'  ter  suit  ev'y  one,  and  hit  'im 
square  on  his  funny-bone  ev'y  time.  An'  all  de 
little  bundles  o'  buckwheat  ur  flour  'd  have  pica 
yunes  an'  dimes  in  'em  !  We  used  ter  reg'lar  sif 
'em  out  wid  a  sifter.  Dat  was  des  our  white 
folks's  way.  None  o'  de  yether  fam'lies  'long  de 
coas'  done  it.  You  see  all  the  diffe'nt  fam'lies  had 


260 


diffe'nt  ways.  But  ole  marster  an'  ole  miss  dey'd 
think  up  some  new  foolishness  ev'y  year.  We 
nuver  knowed  what  was  gwine  to  be  did  nex' — 
on'y  one  thing.  Dey  attus  put  money  in  de  buck 
wheat-bag — an'  you  know  we  nuver  tas'e  no  buck 
wheat  'cep'n  on'y  Christmus.  Oh,  boy,  ef  we  could 
des  meet  up  wid  some  o'  we's  white  folks  ag'in  !" 

"  How  is  we  got  los'  f'om  'em,  gran'dad  ?"  said 
Duke,  inviting  a  hundredth  repetition  of  the  story 
he  knew  so  well. 

"  How  did  we  git  los'  f'om  we's  white  folks  ? 
Dats  a  sad  story  fur  Christinus,  Juke,  but  ef  you 
sesso — 

"  Hit  all  happened  in  one  nightj  time  o'  de  big 
break  in  de  levee,  seven  years  gone  by.  We  was 
lookin'  fur  de  bank  ter  crack  crost  de  river  f'om 
us,  an'  so  boss  done  had  tooken  all  ban's  over, 
cep'n  us  ole  folks  an'  chillen,  ter  he'p  work  an' 
watch  de  yether  side.  'Bout  midnight,  whiles  we 
was  all  sleepin',  come  a  roa'in'  soun',  an'  fus'  thing 
we  knowed,  all  in  de  pitchy  darkness,  we  was 
floatin'  away— nobody  cep'n  des  you  an'  me  an' 
yo'  mammy  in  de  cabin — floatin'  an'  bumpin'  an' 
rockin'  <m'  all  de  time  dark  as  pitch.  So  we  kep' 
on — one  minute  stiddy,  nex'  minute  cher-phmk 
gins'  a  tree  ur  some'h'n'  nother — all  in  de  dark — 
an'  one  minute  you'd  cry — you  was  des  a  weanin' 
baby  den — an'  nex'  minute  I'd  heah  de  bed  you 
an'  yo'  ma  was  in  bump  gins'  de  wall,  an'  you'd 
laugh  out  loud  an'  yo'  mammy  she'd  holler — all 
in  de  dark.  An'  so  we  travelled,  up  an'  down, 


261 


bunkety-bunk,  seem  lak  a  honderd  hours  ;  tell 
treckly  a  termenjus  wave  come  an'  I  had  sca'cely 
felt  it  boomin'  onder  me  when  I  pitched,  an'  ev'y- 
thing  went  travellin'.  An'  when  I  put  out  my 
han',  I  felt  you  by  me  —  but  yo'  mammy,  she 
warn't  nowhar. 

"  Hoi'  up  yo'  face  an'  don't  cry,  boy.  I  been 
a  mighty  poor  mammy  ter  yer,  but  I  blesses 
Gord  to-night  fur  savin'  dat  little  black  baby  ter 
me — all  in  de  win1  an1  de  storm  an1  de  dark  dat 
night. 

"  You  see,  yo'  daddy,  he  was  out  wid  de  gang 
wuckin'  de  levee  crost  de  river — an'  dats  huccome 
yo'  ma  was  'feerd  ter  stay  by  'erse'f  an'  sont  fur 
me. 

"  Well,  baby,  when  I  knowed  yo'  mammy  was 
gone,  I  helt  yoti  tight  an'  prayed.  An'  atter  a 
while  —  seem  lak  a  million  hours — come  a  pale 
streak  o'  day,  an'  fo'  de  sun  was  up,  heah  come  a 
steamboat  puffin'  down  de  river,  an'  treckly  hit 
blowed  a  whistle  an'  ringed  a  bell  an'  stop  an 
took  us  on  boa'd,  an'  brung  us  on  down  heah  ter 
de  city." 

"  An'  you  never  seed  my  mammy  no  mo',  gran'- 
dad?"  Little  Duke's  lips  quivered  just  a  little. 

"  Yo'  mammy  was  safe  at  Home  in  de  Golden 
City,  Juke,  long  'fore  we  teched  even  de  low  Ian' 
o'  dis  yearth. 

"An'  dats  how  we  got  los'  f'om  we's  white  folks. 

"  An'  time  we  struck  de  city  I  was  so  twis'  up 
wid  rheumatiz  I  lay  fur  six  munts  in  de  Cha'ity 


262 


Hospit'l  ;  an'  you  bein'  so  puny,  cuttin'  yo'  toofs, 
dey  kep'  you  right  along  in  de  baby-ward  tell  I 
was  able  to  start  out.  An'  sence  I  stepped  out 
o'  dat  hospit'l  do'  wid  yo'  little  bow-legs  trottin' 
by  me,  so  I  been  goin'  ever  sence.  Days  I'd  go 
out  sawin'  wood,  I'd  set  you  on  de  wood-pile  by 
me ;  an'  when  de  cook  'd  slip  me  out  a  plate  o' 
soup,  I'd  ax  fur  two  spoons.  An'  so  you  an'  me, 
we  been  pardners  right  along,  an'  I  wouldn't  swap 
pardners  wid  nobody — you  heah,  Juke?  Dis- 
here's  Christmus,  an'  I'm  talkin'  ter  yer." 

Duke  looked  so  serious  that  a  feather's  weight 
would  have  tipped  the  balance  and  made  him  cry; 
but  he  only  blinked. 

"An'  it's  gittin'  late,  now,  pardner,"  the  old 
man  continued,  "  an'  you  better  be  gwine — less'n 
you  feerd  ?  Ef  you  is,  des  sesso  now,  an'  we'll 
meek  out  wid  de  col'  victuals  in  de  press." 

"  Who's  afeerd,  gran'dad  ?"  Juke's  face  had 
broken  into  a  broad  grin  now,  and  he  was  cracking 
his  whip  again. 

"Don't  eat  no  supper,  tell  I  come,"  he  added, 
as  he  started  out  into  the  night.  But  as  he 
turned  down  the  street,  he  muttered  to  himself  : 

"  I  wouldn't  keer,  ef  all  dem  sassy  boys  didn't 
pleg  me — say  I  ain't  got  no  mammy — ur  daddy — 
ur  nothin'.  But  dey  won't  say  it  ter  me  ag'in,  not 
whiles  I  got  dis  whup  in  my  han'  !  She  sting  lak 
a  rattlesnake,  she  do  !  She's  a  daisy  an'  a  half  ! 
Cher-whack  !  You  gwine  sass  me  any  mo',  you 
grea'  big  over-my-size  coward,  you  ?  Take  dat  ! 


263 


An'  dat !  An'  dot !  Now  run  !  Whoop  !  Heah 
come  de  red  light !" 

So,  in  fancy  avenging  his  little  wrongs,  Duke 
recovered  his  spirits  and  proceeded  to  catch  on 
behind  the  Prytania  car,  that  was  to  help  him  on 
his  way  to  get  his  second-hand  Christmas  dinner. 

His  benefactress  had  not  forgotten  her  prom 
ise  ;  and  in  addition  to  a  heavy  pan  of  scraps, 
Duke  took  home,  almost  staggering  beneath  its 
weight,  a  huge,  compact  bundle. 

Old  Mose  was  snoring  vociferously  when  he 
reached  the  cabin.  Depositing  his  parcel,  the 
little  fellow  lit  a  candle  which  he  placed  beside 
the  sleeper  ;  then,  uncovering  the  pan,  he  laid  it 
gently  upon  his  lap.  And  now,  seizing  a  spoon 
and  tin  cup,  he  banged  it  with  all  his  might. 

" Heah  de  plantation-bell !  Come  git  yo'  Christ- 
inus  gif's  !" 

And  when  his  grandfather  sprang  up,  nearly 
upsetting  the  pan  in  his  fright,  Duke  rolled  back 
ward  on  the  floor,  screaming  with  laughter. 

"  I  'clare,  Juke,  boy,"  said  Mose,  when  he  found 
voice,  "  I  wouldn't  o'  jumped  so,  but  yo'  foolish 
ness  des  fitted  inter  my  dream.  I  was  dreamin' 
o'  ole  times,  an'  des  when  I  come  ter  de  ringin'  o' 
de  plantation-bell,  I  heerd  cher-plang!  An'  it 
nachelly  riz  me  off'n  my  foots.  What's  dis  heah? 
Did  you  git  de  dinner  sho'  'nough  ?" 

The  pan  of  scraps  quite  equalled  that  of  the 
old  man's  memory,  every  familiar  fragment  evok 
ing  a  reminiscence. 


264 


"  You  is  sho'  struck  quality  white  folks  dis 
time,  Juke,"  he  said,  finally,  as  he  pushed  back 
the  pan — Duke  had  long  ago  finished — "  but  dis 
here  tukke3r-stuffin' — I  don't  say  'tain'  good,  but 
hit  don't  quite  come  up  ter  de  mark  o1  ole  miss's 
puckon  stuffing* 

Duke  was  nodding  in  his  chair,  when  finally 
the  old  man,  turning  to  go  to  bed,  spied  the  un 
opened  parcel,  which,  in  his  excitement,  Duke 
had  forgotten.  Placing  it  upon  the  table  before 
him,  Mose  began  to  open  it.  It  was  a  package 
worth  getting — just  such  a  generous  Christmas 
bundle  as  he  had  described  to  Duke  this  after 
noon.  Perhaps  it  was  some  vague  impression  of 
this  sort  that  made  his  old  fingers  tremble  as  he 
untied  the  strings,  peeping  or  sniffing  into  the 
little  parcels  of  tea  and  coffee  and  flour.  Sud 
denly  something  happened.  Out  of  a  little  sack 
of  buckwheat,  accidentally  upset,  rolled  a  ten- 
cent  piece.  The  old  man  threw  up  his  arms,  fell 
forward  over  the  table,  and  in  a  moment  was  sob 
bing  aloud. 

It  was  some  time  before  he  could  make  Duke 
comprehend  the  situation,  but  finally,  pointing  to 
the  coin  lying  before  him,  he  cried :  "  Look,  boy, 
look  !  Wharbouts  is  you  got  dat  bundle  ?  Open 
yo'  mouf,  boy !  Look  at  de  money  in  de  buck 
wheat-bag!  Oh,  my  ole  mistuss  !  Nobody  but 
you  is  tied  up  dat  bundle  !  Praise  Gord,  I  say  !" 

There  was  no  sleep  for  either  Mose  or  Duke 
now  ;  and,  late  as  it  was,  they  soon  started  out, 


265 


the  old  man  steadying  himself  on  Duke's  shoul 
der,  to  find  their  people. 

It  was  hard  for  little  Duke  to  believe,  even 
after  they  had  hugged  all  'round  and  laughed  and 
cried,  that  the  stylish  black  gentleman  who  an 
swered  the  door-bell,  silver  tray  in  hand,  was  his 
own  father  !  He  had  often  longed  for  a  regular 
blue-shirted  plantation  "daddy,"  but  never,  in 
his  most  ambitious  moments,  had  he  aspired  to 
filial  relations  with  so  august  a  personage  as  this  ! 

But  while  Duke  was  swelling  up,  rolling  his 
eyes,  and  wondering,  Mose  stood  in  the  centre  of 
a  crowd  of  his  white  people,  while  a  gray-haired 
old  lady,  holding  his  trembling  hand  in  both  of 
hers,  was  saying,  as  the  tears  trickled  down  her 
cheeks  : 

"But  why  didn't  you  get  some  one  to  write  to 
us  for  you,  Moses  ?" 

Then  Mose,  sniffling  still,  told  of  his  long  ill 
ness  in  the  hospital,  and  of  his  having  afterwards 
met  a  man  from  the  coast  who  told  the  story  of 
the  sale  of  the  plantation,  but  did  not  know  where 
the  family  had  gone. 

"  When  I  fixed  up  that  bundle,"  the  old  lady 
resumed,  "I  was  thinking  of  you,  Moses.  Every 
year  we  have  sent  out  such  little  packages  to  any 
needy  colored  people  of  whom  we  knew,  as  a  sort 
of  memorial  to  our  lost  ones,  always  half-hoping 
that  they  might  actually  reach  some  of  them. 
And  I  thought  of  you  'specially,  Moses,"  she  con- 


266 


tmucd,  mischievously,  "  when  I  put  in  all  that 
turkey-stuffing.  Do  you  remember  how  greedy 
you  always  were  about  pecan-stuffing  ?  It  wasn't 
quite  as  good  as  usual  this  year." 

"  No'm  ;  dat  what  I  say,"  said  Mose.  "  I  tol' 
Juke  dat  stuffin'  warn't  quite  up  ter  de  mark — 
ain't  I,  Juke  ?  Fur  gracious  sake,  look  at  Juke, 
settin'  on  his  daddy's  shoulder,  with  a  face  on  'im 
ole  as  a  man  !  Put  dat  boy  down,  Pete  !  Dat's 
a  business-man  you  foolin'  wid  !" 

Whereupon  little  Duke — man  of  affairs,  fora 
ger,  financier — overcome  at  last  with  the  fulness 
of  the  situation,  made  a  really  babyish  square 
mouth,  and  threw  himself  sobbing  upon  his  fa 
ther's  bosom. 


POEMS 


ROSE 

PLANTATION   LOVE-SONG 

On,  my  Rose  ain't  white, 
An'  my  Rose  ain't  red, 

An'  my  Rose  don't  grow 
On  de  vine  on  de  shed, 

But  she  lives  in  de  cabin 
Whar  de  roses  twines, 

An'  she  rings  out  'er  clo'es 
In  de  shade  o'  de  vines. 

An'  de  red  leaves  fall, 
An'  de  white  rose  sheds, 

Tell  dey  kiver  all  de  groun' 
Whar  my  brown  Rose  treads. 

An'  de  butterfly  comes, 
An'  de  bumble-bee,  too, 

An'  de  hummin'-bird  hums 
All  de  long  day  thoo. 

An'  dey  sip  at  de  white, 
An'  dey  tas'e  at  de  red, 


270 

An'  dey  fly  in  an'  out 

O'  de  vines  roun'  de  shed, 

While  I  comes  along 
An'  I  gethers  some  buds, 

An'  I  mecks  some  remarks 
About  renchin'  or  suds. 

But  de  birds  an'  de  bees 
An'  de  rest  of  us  knows 

Dat  we  all  hangin'  roun' 
Des  ter  look  at  my  Rose. 


WINNIE 

A    ROMANCE    IN    VERSE 

WHEN  Winnie  steps  out  ter  de  stable 

You  nuver  would  know — 'less  you  Jcnowed, 

Dat  she  had  been,  sence  she  was  able 

Ter  reach  on  tiptoe  at  the  table, 
De  biggest  humbugger  dat  growed. 

'Gaze  me,  I  ben  riz  tip  wid  Winnie — 
I'm  talkin'  'bout  dat  what  I  know. 

I'd  have  ter  be  wuss  'n  a  ninny 

Ef  I  could  forgit  all  de  shinny 
An'  chinies  *  we  played  long  ago. 

When  she  warn't  no  bigger  'n  a  minute 

I  follered  'er  roun'  like  a  pup  ; 
We'd  sneak  ter  de  creek  and  wade  in  it — 
She'd  tuck  up  'er  frock,  an'  I'd  pin  it, 

An'  dat's  des  de  way  we  growed  up. 

Why,  once-t,  when  she  tromped  on  a  briar, 
'Way  down  by  de  gin-wagon  track, 

I  stepped  in  de  bramble  right  by  'er, 

Wid  my  foots  a-stingin'  like  fire, 
An'  toted  'er  home  on  my  back. 

*  Marbles. 


272 


Of  co'se  I  was  des  like  'er  brother 

(I'm  fetchin'  dis  up  des  fur  proofs). 
We  could  o'  sot  down  close-t  together, 
An'  pulled  out  de  thorns  fur  each  other, 
Excep'n'  nair  one  had  front  toofs. 

An'  so  she  helt  on  ter  my  shoulder, 

An'  talked  'er  sweet  talk  in  my  ear : 
Let  on  dat  she  liked  me  ter  hold  'er, 
An'  all  sech  as  dat,  tell  I  told  'er — 
Well,  'tain't  110  use  tell  in'  it  here ; 

But  when  we  got  down  ter  de  open, 

Instid  o'  me  cross-cuttin'  short, 
I  tuck  de  long  road,  an'  it  slopin', 
An'  limped  all  de  way,  des  a-hopin' 
She'd  'preshuate  me  like  she  ought. 

But  after  me  packin'  'er  keerful, 
An'  settin'  'er  down  at  'er  do', 
Instid  o'  her  thankin'  me  cheerful, 
De  way  she  cut  up  was  des  fearful. — 
She  slid  f'om  my  back  to  de  flo', 

An'  'fo'  I  could  gether  my  senses 
Dat  gal,  she  was  dancin'  a  jig ; 

She  des  had  been  makiri1  pertences  ! 

An'  hore  I  had  clumb  over  fences 
Wicl  her — an"1  she  weighed  like  a  pig. 

Of  co'se  dis  was  whiles  we  was  chillen, 
But  when  we  growed  up  it  was  wuss ; 


273 


Dec  way  she'd  pervoke  me  was  killin\ 
Tell  sometimes  I'd  feel  like  a  villain, 
An',  Lord,  but  I'd  in'ardly  cuss  ! 

She'd  ax  me  ter  tote  'er  pail  for  'er, 

An'  walk  by  my  side,  an'  she'd  laugh, 
An'  tell  me  some  joy  or  some  sorrer 
Dat  fretted  'er  min'.     Den  to-morrer 
She'd  git  me  ter  hoi'  off  de  calf 

While  Pete,  a  big  boy  dat  I  hated, 

Would  come  an'  stan'  close-t  by  'er  side, 
An'  stiddy  de  cow,  while  I  waited 
'Way  off  'cross  de  yard,  so  frustrated 
Dat  some  4ays  I  purty  nigh  cried. 

Dey  wasn't  no  principle  in  'er, 

Come  down  ter  sech  doin's  as  dat, 
'Gaze  Pete  was  a  miser'ble  sinner, 
An'  'cep'  I  was  littler  an'  thinner, 
Some  days  I'd  o'  laid  'im  out  flat ! 

Well,  sir,  dat's  de  way  Winnie  acted — 

She  fooled  me  straight  thoo  all  my  life ; 
An'  when  she  had  got  me  clair  'stracted, 
Tell  I  run  at  Pete,  an'  got  whackted, 

She  turned  roun',  an' — well,  she's  my  wife. 

My  'spe'unce  wid  Peter  was  bitter, 
But  sometimes  it  pays  ter  git  hit ; 

18 


274 


'Gaze  Winnie's  a  curious  critter, 
An'  'cep'  I  had  resked  all  ter  git  'er, 
I'd  be  holdin'  off  de  calf  yit. 


VOICES 

I  reckon  I  is,  like  you  say,  sir, 
Pa'lized  an'  half-'stracted  an'  blin', 

An'  maybe  de  voice  dat  I  hear  is 
De  win'  when  it  comes  thoo  de  pine. 

I  can't  'spute  no  white  pusson's  knowledge, 
I  don't  know  de  hows  nur  de  whys, 

An'  when  I  hears  heavenly  voices 

Dat  seem  like  dey  come  f'om  de  skies, 

I  don't  fret  myse'f  wid  book-questioms, 
But  listens  ter  ketch  eve'y  note, 

An'  when  a  bird  sings  me  harp-music, 
Don't  s'picion  de  shape  of  'is  th'oat. 

De  katydid  close-t  to  my  shoulder, 
I  knows  he  des  saws  wid  'is  wings, 

But  when  de  Lord  sends  'im  to  cheer  me, 
He  sets  in  de  vines  an'  he  sings. 

He  sings  songs  I  half  disremember, 
An'  all  o'  my  mammy's  ole  hymns 

She  used  to  sing  while  she  was  washin' 
Right  under  dese  same  ole  tree  limbs. 

An'  even  de  brook  dat's  all  dried  up, 
Dat  used  to  run  down  f'om  de  springs, 


276 


De  katydid  mixes  its  tricklin' 

Right  in  wid  de  songs  mammy  sings. 

An'  often  she'll  stop  in  a  measure, 
An'  I'll  hear  'er  dip  down  'er  clo'es, 

An'  wring  'em,  an'  bat  'em,  an'  reneh  'em- 
All  keepin'  good  time  as  she  goes. 

Yas,  I  knows  de  katydids'  music 
Ain't  no  mo'  'n  shufflin'  o'  feet, 

But  dat  nuver  hindered  'em  learnin' 
To  sing  other  folks's  song  sweet. 

Dis  ole  pine-tree  over  my  cabin, 

Dat's  growed  thoo  a  hole  in  de  shed, 

I  knows  it's  all  blighted  and  knotted, 
An'  half  of  its  needles  is  dead. 

I  know  whar  de  thunder-bolt  struck  it, 
Its  heart  is  split  open  an'  bare, 

An'  folks  say  de  spiders  is  tuck  it, 
An'  swung  dey  gray  webs  ever'where. 

But  when  de  night  win'  passes  thoo  it, 
An'  all  de  plantation's  asleep, 

It  sings  me  some  heavenly  prormise 
Dat  'minds  me  I'm  in  de  Lord's  keep. 

Dey  ain't  a  dry  twig  ur  a  needle 
But  sings  its  purticilar  note, 


277 

An'  even  de  holler  dat's  blasted 
Seem  like  it  turns  inter  a  th'oat. 

Yas,  I  knows  I's  pa'lized  an'  blinded 
An'  half-'stracted,  des  like  you  say, 

An'  co'se  I  ain't  got  education! 
To  'splain  all  my  comforts  away. 

So,  when  a  ole  bumble-bee  fetches 
Some  story  'bout  when  I  was  young, 

Dat  I  done  forgot,  'cep'  in  snatches, 
I  don't  make  'im  show  me  'is  tongue. 

I  don't  ax  no  impident  questioms, 
But  listens  to  ketch  eve'y  note  ; 

An'  when  a  bird  plays  me  harp-music, 
Don't  s'picion  de  shape  of  'is  th'oat. 


THE    KND 


BY  EUTII  MoENERY  STUART 


CARLOTTA'S    INTENDED,  and  Other  Talcs.      Illus 
trated.     Post  8vo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1  50. 

They  all  are  simple,  pathetic,  and  full  of  humanity. 
They  are  told  wonderfully  well,  and  the  author  reveals  her 
self  as  exceptionally  skilful  alike  in  studying  and  describing 
racial  and  personal  characteristics.  The  volume  is  one  of  the 
best  and  most  entertaining  of  its  class  which  we  have  read 
in  a  long  time.  —  Congregationalist,  Boston. 

Mrs.  Stuart  has  a  way  of  her  own  to  charm  her  readers 
withal.  In  these  stories  she  is  at  her  best  ;  they  are  all 
good,  very  good.  —  Independent,  N.  Y. 

A   GOLDEN   WEDDING,  and  Other   Tales.      Illus 
trated.     Post  8vo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1  50. 

The  ten  or  twelve  sketches  in  "A  Golden  Wedding"  re 
veal  a  mingled  web  of  humor  and  pathos  but  rarely  found  in 
the  dialect  writing  of  the  day.  Only  one  thrown  into  inti 
mate  contact  with  the  simple-hearted  black  people  —  brought 
up  with  them  —  could  have  drawn  their  features  and  their 
natures  in  outlines  so  true,  steadfast,  and  dramatic.  —  Critic, 
N.  Y. 

Ruth  McEnery  Stuart  lias  not  caught  alone  the  lingual 
qualities  of  the  negro,  but  their  emotional  side.  "  The  Gold 
en  Wedding  "  is  touching  in  sentiment.  —  N.  Y.  Times. 

THE  STORY  OF  BABETTE  :  A  Little  Creole  Girl.    Il 
lustrated.     Post  8vo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1  50. 

The  story  is  charming,  and  will  be  read  as  frequently  by 
grown  people  as  by  children.  —  N.  Y.  Times. 

Not  only  does  "Babette"  thrill  with  interest,  but  it  is 
sweet  and  wholesome  in  its  attractiveness.  —  Cincinnati  Com 
mercial-  Gazette. 

PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER   &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 


above  works  are  for  sale-  by  all  booksellers,  or  will  be  sent 
by  the  publishers  by  mail,  postage  'prepaid,  to  any  part  of  the  United 
States,  Canada,  or  Mexico,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


BY  MAEY   E.  WILKINS 


MADELON.     A  Novel.     16mo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1  25. 

PEMBROKE.  A  Novel.  Illustrated.  16mo,  Cloth,  Orna 
mental,  $1  50. 

JANE  FIELD.  A  Novel.  Illustrated.  16mo,  Cloth,  Orna 
mental,  $1  25. 

A  NEW  ENGLAND  NUN,  and  Other  Stories.  16mo,  Cloth, 
Ornamental,  $1  25. 

A  HUMBLE  EOMANCE,  and  Other  Stories.  16mo,  Cloth, 
Ornamental,  $1  25. 

YOUNG  LUCRETIA,  and  Other  Stories.  Illustrated.  Post 
8vo.  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1  52. 

GILES  COREY,  YEOMAN.  A  Play.  Illustrated.  32mo, 
Cloth,  Ornamental,  50  cents. 

Mary  E.  Wilkins  writes  of  New  England  country  life,  ana 
lyzes  New  England  country  character,  with  the  skill  and  deft 
ness  of  one  who  knows  it  through  and  through,  and  yet  never  for 
gets  that,  while  realistic,  she  is  first  and  last  an  artist. — Boston 
Advertiser. 

Miss  Wilkins  has  attained  an  eminent  position  among  her 
literary  contemporaries  as  one  of  the  most  careful,  natural,  and 
effective  writers  of  brief  dramatic  incident.  Few  surpass  her 
in  expressing  the  homely  pathos  of  the  poor  and  ignorant,  while 
the  humor  of  her  stories  is  quiet,  pervasive,  and  suggestive. — 
Philadelphia  Press. 

It  takes  just  such  distinguished  literary  art  as  Mary  E.  Wil- 
kins  possesses  to  give  an  episode  of  New  England  its  soul, 
pathos,  and  poetry. — N.  Y.  Times. 

The  charm  of  Miss  Wilkins's  stories  is  in  her  intimate  ac 
quaintance  and  comprehension  of  humble  life,  and  the  sweet 
human  interest  she  feels  and  makes  her  readers  partake  of,  in 
the  simple,  common,  homely  people  she  draws. —  Springfield 
Republican. 

PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK 

K3~  The  above  works  are  for  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  will  be  sent  by  the 
publishers  postage  prepaid,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


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